Song. To Amarantha, That she would dishevel her hair
Amarantha sweet and faire,
Ah brade no more that shining haire!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee let it flye.
Let it flye as unconfin'd
As its calme Ravisher, the winde;
Who hath left his darling th' East,
To wanton o're that spicie Nest.
Ev'ry Tresse must be confest;
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a Clue of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.
Doe not then winde up that light
In Ribands, and o're-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 walkes of Love,
Weary lye we downe and rest,
And fanne each others panting breast.
Heere wee'l strippe and coole our fire
In Creame below, in milke-baths higher:
And when all Well's are drawne dry,
I'le drink a tear out of thine eye.
Which our very Joyes shall leave
That sorrowes thus we can deceive;
Or our very sorrowes weepe,
That joyes so ripe, so little keepe.