The Vine

I dreamed this mortal part of mine                        Was metamorphosed to a vine,                    Which, crawling one and every way,                        Enthralled my dainty Lucia.                Methought, her long small legs and thighs                      I with my tendrils did surprise:                    Her belley, buttocks, and her waist                    By my soft nervelets were embraced                      About her head I writhing hung                    And with rich clusters (hid Amoung                    The leaves) her temples i behung,                      So that my Lucia seemed to me                    Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.                    My curls about her neck did crawl,                  And arms and hands they did enthrall,                    So that she could not freely stir                  ( All parts there made one prisoner).                  But when I crept with leaves to hide                  Those parts which maids keep unespied,                    Such fleeting pleasures there I took                        That with the fancy i awoke,                  And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine                    More like a stock than like a vine.