by Rabeya Khandaker
What art thou if thou art not a scoundrel?
And yet thy roguish smile does take me so.
But O! this affection is not willful,
It tortures me; withal I could not do.
Faith, do not move thy lips closer 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 is torn,
The pendulous moment for which th'art skilled;
I submit my passion, my love, my trust
As I am deluged in your gentle buss.
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