Classic Poem

Haire, precious haire which Midas' hand did straine,
Part of the wreathe of gold that crownes those browes
Which winter's whitest white in whitenesse stain,
And lillie, by Eridian's banke that growes;
Haire, fatall present, which first caus'd my woes,
When loose yee hang like Danae's golden raine,
Sweet nettes, which sweetly doe all hearts enchaine,
Strings, deadly strings, with which Loue bends his bowes,
How are yee hither come? tell me, O haire,
Deare armelet, for what thus were yee giuen?
I know a badge of bondage I you weare,
Yet, haire, for you, O that I were a heauen!
Like Berenice's locke that yee might shine,
But brighter farre, about this arme of mine.