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 clue of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled.
Do not, then, wind up the light
In ribands, and o’ercloud in night,
Like the sun’s in early ray;
But shake your head, and scatter day!”