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| Proserpine by Rosetti |
Fecund-full of aril, she, knowing nothing chaste,
Falling into mouths of thieves and eager reprobates,
Who pay two bits to lay her down, her fertile forme to waste.
Lusty wanton revelers, in longest lines awaite.
She craves the slow blade cleaving her, and leaving her undone,
Exposing her fair satin, and rubies one-by-one.
You ravage her too soon, my dear; you taste her just for fun,
E’r hastening her perishing, believing you have won.
Her worth you’ll never know for she is silent and unscolding.
Let her not to enter you — impatient, unbeholding.
Her fertile field doth fallow callow jealousy’s unfolding.
Once for only kings and queens, a baroness withholding.
Now a courtesan for commoners, and libertine faire hawkers—
Everyone has tasted her, but still no one can mock her.
