B—t—sy, at Mrs. Kelly's, Duke Street, St. James's.,/p>
—Endless joys are in that heaven of love,
A thousand Cupids dance upon her smiles;
Young bathing graces wanton in her eyes,
Melt in her looks, and pant upon her breasts;
Each word is gentle as a western breeze
That fans the infant bosom of the spring,
And every sigh more fragrant than the morn.
This beautiful girl, that goes by no other name than Betsy, was formely a retailer of apples, &c. She has lately, with three other ladies, sported her figure at Bath, and was there the reigning toast amongst the first bucks of the place; she is delicately and genteely form'd, about the middle size, very young and sprightly, and modest in her conversation, except when proper occasions demand wanton freedom; her hair and eyes are black, and her teeth remarkably white, through which she plays the velvet tip with uncommon grace and ardour; we cannot pretend to say who cropt the virgin bud from the beautiful tree, but it could be long before she put herself under the care and direction of Mrs. K——, and under such a tutoress we have no doubt but she will will be soon such a complete mistress of her business, that join'd with her personal accomplishments, will bring her into the molt elevated life. Many of the post steeds of Venus have been so often hack'd, that they are broken winded, halt in their paces, and are well nigh founder'd, so as to be scarce fit for any thing but brood mares, if they are not too old.
There will therefore be full room for Betsy to succeed some of the most eminent, as she is well worthy of the embraces of the first men in the kingdom. Some who have possess'd her speak with raptures of the joy she bestows, they say the beauties she displays when drest, great as they are, are trivial to those which custom keeps concealed; they say the mossy grot of Venus is perfectly enchanting; her thighs are two alabaster pillars, which with the ebon tendril that play in wanton ringlets round the grot, and the crimson lining of the elastic portals, form together that perfect clare obscure, so much admir'd in painting, and which always produce a most pleasing effect; that her lovely snowy breasts are quickly bespread with purple meandring veins, and that her murmurs, her broken sighs of joy, and half spoken words of delight in the rapturous minute, justify fully, the exclamation of the poet.
Oh! how sweet to see her eyes
Rolling in their humid fires,
Where the nymph extended lies
Full of love and soft desires;
Conscious red her cheeks o'er spreading,
And her heaving bosom rising,
Milky paths to raptures leading,
Murmuring sighs her joys disguising.