The Vine.

I dreamt this mortal part of mine Was metamorphos'd to a vine; Which crawling one and every way Enthrall'd my dainty Lucia. Methought, her long small legs and thighs I with my tendrils did surprise; Her belly, buttocks, and her waist By my soft nerv'lets were embrac'd; About her head I writhing hung, } And with rich clusters, hid among } The leaves, her temples I behung: } So that my Lucia seem'd to me Young Bacchus ravish'd by his tree. My curls about her neck did crawl, And arms and hands they did enthrall: So that she could not freely stir, All parts there made one prisoner. But when I crept with leaves to hide Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd, Such fleeting pleasures there I took, That with the fancy I awoke; And found, ah me! this flesh of mine More like a stock than like a vine.