Song. Kissing

THERE's a something in kissing—I cannot tell why, Makes my heart in a tumult jump more than breast high: For nine times in ten, So teazing, And pleasing, We find those rude creatures, the dear kissing men, That we wish it repeated again, and again.

Though a kiss stop my breath, oh! how little care I, Since a woman at some time or other must die! For nine times in ten, So teazing, And pleasing, We find those rude creatures, the dear kissing men, That we wish it repeated again, and again,