To heap in them your heavinesses fair,
By double, frugal, savoury breasts embossed,
The rosy skin by which your arms are glossed,
Your belly's curly fleece of reddish hair,
My verses I will weave as, at their doors
Seated, old basket-makers curb and twine
White and brown osiers in a clear design,
Copying enamelled tesselated floors,
Until your body's gold within them teems;
And like a garland I will wear them, spun
In massive blonde heaps on my head, in the sun,
Haughtily proud, as a strong man beseems.