Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,Then, then, (methinks) how bravely showsThat rare arrangement of her clothes!
So shod as when the Huntress MaidWith thumping buskin bruised the glade,She moveth, making earth afraid.
Against the sting of random chaffHer leathern gaiters circle halfThe arduous crescent of her calf.
Unto th' occasion timely fit,My love's attire doth show her wit,And of her legs a little bit.
Sorely it sticketh in my throat,She having nowhere to bestow't,To name the absent petticoat.
In lieu whereof a wanton pairOf knickerbockers she doth wear,Full windy and with space to spare.
Enlargéd by the bellying breeze,Lord! how they playfully do easeThe urgent knocking of her knees!
Lengthways curtailèd to her tasteA tunic circumvents her waist,And soothly it is passing chaste.
Upon her head she hath a gearEven such as wights of ruddy cheerDo use in stalking of the deer.
Haply her truant tresses mockSome coronal of shapelier block,To wit, the bounding billy-cock.
Withal she hath a loaded gun,Whereat the pheasants, as they run,Do make a fair diversión.
For very awe, if so she shoots,My hair upriseth from the roots,And lo! I tremble in my boots!
