I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.
Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,
The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart;
From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line
Wherewith the urchin angled for MY HEART.
Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed;
Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.
Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate