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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 ravell=E9d.
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!
— Richard Lovelaceend