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Richard Lovelace - Song To Amarantha, That She Would Dishevel Her Hair
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    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 unconfin`d
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 confest
But neatly tangled at the best;
    Like a clue 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.

    See `tis broke! Within this grove
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 fire
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 leave
That sorrows thus we can deceive;
    Or our very sorrows weep,
That joys so ripe, so little keep.
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