Lippies

However, to ſerve you as much at^([sic]) I can / (For nothing’s more dear to my life than a man) / Tho’ all my acquantances^([sic]) call me coquette, / And ſwear ſuch extravagant freedoms they hate, / And hanging their lippies, put on their grimace, / And call me immodeſt for ſhewing my face; […]

Those sweet little lippies, like rosebuds at e’en, / Encircle a pipe-stem, impure and unclean?

“Make me immortal with a smack on the lippies,” Amos whispered, bending slightly forward, making an enormous kissing sound.

She grabbed my ciggy from out between my lippies and lit hers with my heater, handing me the manhandled ciggy back, bent and smoldering.

I’ve been watching some “Honeys” sizing you up! / Yeah, right! / I’m not kidding you—right over there, sitting at the bar. Two of them! / Wow, you say two of them? Heaven awaits Marko at the bar! / So are you sure, Marko? A big one on the lippies? / Yepper! It’ll just signal to them that I’m a player!

All bacteria infested, / They have cold sores on their lippies, / That’s the story / Of these roaming gypsies.

His beautiful cheeks are like a bed of spices or balsam, such a rich, beautiful smell of the chief spices, and like banks of sweet herbs yielding the fragrances of princely freshliness. His gorgeous lippies are like blood red anemones, a beautiful little flower like a daughter, or even lilies distilling liquid sweet-scented myrrh, the chief of the chiefs!

Then Marjorie, who’d been sipping her wine all day, giddily said to me and everyone in the room, “Matthew, Meredith’s about to leave, why don’t you give her a kiss goodbye . . . on the lippies!”