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 confessed
But neatly tangled at the best,
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then wind up that light
In ribbands, and o'ercloud 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.
Richard Lovelace
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