To a Lady making me a second present of a Lock of her Hair, after I had in an humour return'd the first

Number thy Hairs, count then my summs of bliss;
The Golden Fleece was a mean prize to this.
With Popish Superstition, every day,
To this Lov'd guist, as to some Saint, I'll pray.
Far brighter this, than Ariadne's Hair
Translated to the Gods, and made a Star.
That sprung from earth, e'er to the Skies it flew,
This grew in Paradise, in Heaven it grew.
Thus, tho' the vanquish'd outworks I have won,
Never, Oh! Never must I gain the Town.
Twice ten Years Siege would here successless prove,
War ends in Peace, but can Despair gain Love?
You gave the gift; I did the gift restore,
Again you gave, now to receive no more.
My Heart was yours, you did the toy disdain,
Again 'tis yours, ne'er to return again.
What shall I give, my gratitude to show?
O may your Hair, fast as you cut it, grow;
But Pray'rs are little, where my self I owe.
See, how the Lock does my blest hands Embrace,
As once it Curl'd about the Charmer's Face.
What is my envy to thy present grown!
How do I envy what is now my own!
O could some God transform my shape to Hair,
And would'st thou me, as once this present, wear,
How were I blest! I would around thee roll,
And Curl, and clasp thy Breasts, and twine about thee whole.
And then, if any Lover should but dare
To Court, and beg the favour of thy Hair.
Up would I start, to Vindicate my right,
And stand an end, with horrour, and affright,
Thy Lovely Hair, where Beauty now is sown,
Should like Medusa's snaky Locks be shown,
And turn the bold beholders stisten'd into Stone.