To Amarantha

That she would dishevel her hair

AMARANTHA, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th’ east, To wanton in that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confessed; But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.

Do not, then, wind up that light In ribands, and o’er cloud in night, Like the sun in ’s early ray; But shake your head and scatter day.