I gently touched her hand; she gave
A look that did my soul enslave;
I pressed her rebel lips to vain:
They rose up to be pressed again.
Thus happy, I no farther meant,
Than to be pleased and innocent.
On her soft breasts my hand I laid,
And a quick, light impression made;
They with a kindly warmth did glow,
And swelled, and seemed to overflow.
Yet, trust me, I no farther meant,
Than to be pleased and innocent.
On her eyes my eyes did stay:
O'er her smooth limbs my hands did stray;
Each sense was ravished with delight,
And my soul stood prepared for flight.
Blame me not if at last I meant
More to be pleased than innocent.
Anon - Eighteenth Century