Classic Poem

I never long for gold;
But since I did thy dangling haire behold,
Ah! then, then was it first
That I prou'd Midas' thrist;
And what both Inde and rich Pactolus hold
Can not my flames allay,
For onlye yee, faire tresseresse, this may,
Would yee but giue a lock to help my want,
Of that which prodigall to winds yee grant.