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38 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1899
What shall I doe to shewe myself a man?
It will not be for ought that beawtie can.
I kisse, I clap, I feele, I view at will,
Yett dead he lyes not thinking good or ill.
Vnhappie me, quoth shee, and wilt' not stand?
Com, lett me rubb and chafe it with my hand.
Perhaps the sillie worme is labour'd sore,
And wearied that it can doe no more.
If it be so (as I am greate a-dread)
I wish tenne thousand times, that I were dead.
How ere it is; no meanes shall want in me,
That maie auaile to his recouerie.
Which saide, she tooke and rould it on hir thigh,
And when she lookt' on't, she would weepe and sighe,
And dandled it, and dance't it up and doune,
Not ceasing, till she rais'd it from his swoune.
And then he flue on hir as he were wood
And on her breeche did thack, and foyne a-good