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The Song Book 133
No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice.
Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck ; And to say truth, (for out it must) It look'd like the great collar, (just,)
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light; But oh ! she dances such a way, No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison;
(Who sees them is undone.) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Kath'rine pear,
The side that's next the sun.
Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compar'd to that was next her chin;
Some bee had stung it newly ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.
Words by Sir John Suckling.