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 o'er that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confest,

But neatly tangled at the best;

Like a clew of golden thread

Most excellently ravelléd.