The Poet Expatiates on the Beauty of Delia's Hair

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,
But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE.

The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads
Sometimes with honored fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,
BUT BORROWS SWEETNESS FROM HER SWEETER HAIR.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair
With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove!
And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,
Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays
Might CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride,
Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise,
I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,
The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart;
From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line
Wherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, SELF-INTERR'D, proceed;
Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads
His filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate,
My captive HEART has HANDCUFF'D in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,
THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair,
In FLOWING LUSTER bathe their bright'ning wings;
And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care,
The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS.