Classic Poem

What feet she has, what legs, what waist, what thighs,
What shoulders, breast, what tender neck and eyes!
I rave, I die to touch her rosy arms,
Her round perfections and her secret charms.
How sweet her kisses after other lips,
How quick the movement of her swaying hips.
How soft her voice when at Love's hour she cries:
" Oh let me die in these dear ecstasies."
Her name is Flora — true: she knows no Greek,
Nor any language but her own to speak;
But what is that to me? Did Perseus fear
To wed Andromeda, his Indian dear?
With limbs like hers she needs not Sappho's wit —
No man will ever see she wanteth it.