Classic Poem

When her dear bosom clips
That little cur, which fawns to touch her lips,
Or when it is his hap
To lie lapped in her lap,
Oh it grows noon with me,
With hotter pointed beams
I burn, than those are which the sun forth streams,
When piercing lightning his rays called may be:
And as I muse how I to those extremes
Am brought, I find no cause, except that she
In love's bright zodiac having traced each room,
To the hot Dog-star now at last is come.