Come tell me, dear Charlotte, my goddess, I cried;
What numbers have tasted thy charms?
Too fickle enslaver! thou ownest a pride,
In admitting a host to thine arms!
Yet blooming in all the luxuriance of youth
The hills of thy bosom belie thee,
Then come my enchantress, confess me the truth,
Let not prudery idly deny me!
O never, she cried, let us reckon the "number,"
But rather the "length" of our loves!
Ah, give me full measure! and if it be under,
I reckon by couples my "doves,"
With my finger I spann'd every member of pleasure,
Together I spann'd the amount,
Till the pricks put together, were twelve miles in measure
And then I gave o'er the account!