1 When Love, with unconfined wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty. 2 When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty. 3 When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king;[1] When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. 4 Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. [1] Charles I., in whose cause Lovelace was then in prison. SONG. 1 Amarantha, sweet and fair, Forbear to braid that shining hair; As my curious hand or eye, Hovering round thee, let it fly: 2 Let it fly as unconfined As its ravisher, the wind, Who has left his darling east, To wanton o'er this spicy nest. 3 Every tress must be confess'd But neatly tangled at the best, Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled: 4 Do not then wind up that light In ribands, and o'ercloud the night; Like the sun in his early ray, But shake your head and scatter day. A LOOSE SARABAND. 1 Ah me! the little tyrant thief, As once my heart was playing, He snatch'd it up, and flew away, Laughing at all my praying. 2 Proud of his purchase, he surveys, And curiously sounds it; And though he sees it full of wounds, Cruel, still on he wounds it. 3 And now this heart is all his sport, Which as a ball he boundeth, From hand to hand, from breast to lip, And all its rest confoundeth. 4 Then as a top he sets it up, And pitifully whips it; Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine, Then straight again he strips it. 5 He cover'd it with false belief, Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning cushionet On's mother he bestow'd it. 6 Each day with her small brazen stings A thousand times she raced it; But then at night, bright with her gems, Once near her breast she placed it. 7 Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed, She knew that smart, and grieved; At length this poor condemned heart, With these rich drugs reprieved. 8 She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear, Which my Lucasta dropped; And in the sleeve silk of her hair 'Twas hard bound up and wrapped. 9 She probed it with her constancy, And found no rancour nigh it; Only the anger of her eye Had wrought some proud flesh nigh it.