Sonnet 46

HAire, precious haire, which Midas hand did strain,
Part of the Wreath of gold that crowns those brows
Which Winters whitest white in whitenes stain,
And lilly by Eridans banke that grows.
Haire [fatall present] which first caus'd my woes,
When loose ye hang like Danaes golden raine,
Sweet Nets which sweetly do all hearts enchaine,
Strings, deadly strings, with which Love bends his bows.
How are ye hither come, tell me O haire?
Deare Armelet, for what thus were ye given?
I know, a badge of bondage I you weare,
Yet haire for you O that I were a Heaven!
Like Bereni…s Locks, that ye might shine,
(But brighter far) about this Arme of mine.