Hair, precious hair which Midas' hand did strain,

[ZaunköniG]

Hair, precious hair which Midas' hand did strain,
Part of the wreath of gold that crowns those brows
Which winter's whitest white in whiteness stain,
And lily, by Eridan's bank that grows;
Hair, fatal present, which first caus'd my woes,
When loose ye hang like Danae's golden rain,
Sweet nets, which sweetly do all hearts enchain,
Strings, deadly strings, with which Love bends his bows,
How are ye hither come? tell me, O hair,
Dear armelet, for what thus were ye given?
I know a badge of bondage I you wear,
Yet hair, for you, O that I were a heaven!
Like Berenice's lock that ye might shine,
But brighter far, about this arm of mine.