"The Flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft, Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft. Fir’d with this Thought, at once he strain’d the Breast, And on the Lips a burning Kiss impress’d. ’Tis true, the harden’d Breast resists the Gripe, And the cold Lips return a Kiss unripe: But when, retiring back, he look’d agen, To think it Iv’ry, was a thought too mean: So wou’d believe she kiss’d, and courting more, Again embrac’d her naked Body o’er; And straining hard the Statue, was afraid His Hands had made a Dint, and hurt his Maid: Explor’d her, Limb by Limb, and fear’d to find So rude a Gripe had left a livid Mark behind:"