IV. Thy locks are all of sunny sheen In rings of gold yronne,[1] All in the blooméd May. We pri'thee pass not on; If thou dost leave the sun, Delight is with thee gone, Oh! stay. Thou art the fairest of thy feres, We pri'thee pass not on.
↑"His crispè hair in ringis was yronne." Chaucer, Knight's Tale.
