Scatter'd like the beams o' th' morn,
Playing with the sportive air,
Hides the sweets it doth adorn,
Captive in that net restrains me,
In those golden fetters chains me.
Nor doth she with power less bright
50My divided heart invade,
Whose soft tresses spread like night
O'er her shoulders a black shade;
For the starlight of her eyes