When I had met my love the twentieth time,
   She put me to confession day and night:
Did I like woman far above all things,
   Or did the songs I make give more delight?

'Listen, you sweeter flower than ever smiled
   In April's sunny face,' I said at last —
'The voices and the legs of birds and women
   Have always pleased my ears and eyes the most.'

And saying this, I watched my love with care,
   Not knowing would my words offend or please:
But laughing gaily, her delighted breasts
   Sent ripples down her body to her knees.