Classic Poem

And so his Grace my husband loves to pass
Hours at thy feet; and when thy hair's unrolled,
He dips his fingers in the brook of gold
Which trickles down thy shoulders, my sweet lass?

He loves no more the blue-black ebon mass
Of mine, and thinks my olive cheek grown old;
Nor praises now my teeth, which I am told
Are whiter than the viper's in the grass.

Minion, I have a whim for golden thread:
Wilt give me one gold lock with which to play,
As I sit lonely here upon my bed?

But ere that golden lock be cut away
Methinks I'll ask thee also for thy head,
And give my knaves a task to do to-day.