I come upon her, sleeping be,
Immersed in dreams of revelry
Her limbs are still, her eyelids twitch
She might be beggar, queen, or witch

I look high—look low—all around
Her raiment’s nowhere to be found
I did not seek to find her thus
My blessings, are they fate or luck?

Her breasts they rise as breaths she breathes
Her form’s as pretty as you please
Of all her gifts I would partake
Yet she’s too precious, for to wake