I'll wash them with a weeping eye,
30And then my lips shall kiss them dry;
Or for a towel he shall have
My hair—such flax as nature gave.
But if my wanton locks be bold,
And on Thy sacred feet take hold,
And curl themselves about, as though
They were loath to let thee go,
O chide them not, and bid away,
For then for grief they will grow grey.