His Ladies Dog

WHen Her deare Bosome clips
That little Cur, which fawnes to touch her Lips,
Or when it is his hap
To lie lap'd in her Lap,
O it grows Noon with me,
With hotter-pointed Beames
I burne, then those are which the Sun forth streames,
When piercing lightning his Rayes call'd may be:
And as I muse how I to shose extreames
Am brought, I find no Cause, except that She
In Loves bright Zodiack having trac'd each Roome,
To the hot Dog-star now at last is come.