Song To Amarantha That She Would Dishevel Her Hair

Amarantha sweet and

Ah braid no more that shining hair!    As my curious hand or

Hovering round thee let it fly.    Let it fly as

As its calm ravisher, the wind,    Who hath left his darling th'East,

To wanton o'er that spicy nest.    Ev'ry tress must be

But neatly tangled at the best;    Like a clue of golden thread,

Most excellently ravelled.    Do not then wind up that

In ribands, and o'er-cloud in night;    Like the sun in's early ray,

But shake your head and scatter day.    See 'tis broke!

Within this

The bower, and the walks of love,    Weary lie we down and rest,

And fan each other's panting breast.    Here we'll strip and cool our

In cream below, in milk-baths higher:    And when all wells are drawn dry,

I'll drink a tear out of thine eye,    Which our very joys shall

That sorrows thus we can deceive;    Or our very sorrows weep,

That joys so ripe, so little keep.