Discovery
I know you, wanton: prayers will not avail:
Those scented locks tell all too plain a tale,
Your eyes with watching red, those perfumes wet,
That garland still upon your tresses set.
See how your curls in wild confusion twine,
How all your limbs are still bemused with wine.
Go, common wench, whither the loud harps call
And castanets from clattering fingers fall.
Those scented locks tell all too plain a tale,
Your eyes with watching red, those perfumes wet,
That garland still upon your tresses set.
See how your curls in wild confusion twine,
How all your limbs are still bemused with wine.
Go, common wench, whither the loud harps call
And castanets from clattering fingers fall.
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