The Kiss
By Mitu K

What art thou if thou art not a scoundrel?
And yet thy roguish smile does take me so.
But O! this affection is not willfill,
It tortures me, withal I could not do.
Faith, do not move thy lips cloder to mine,
For I am fearful of thy practiced touch.
And yet I find my hands caressed by thine,
Smoothing o'er my skin, my heart beats much,
I beg thee to stop, yet thou proceed more,
For th'art but rug-headed, and iron-will'd.
Yet with each breath o' thine, my doubt if torn.
The pendulous moment for which th'art skilled;
I submit my passion, my love, my trust
As I am deluged in thy gentle buss.