The Duchess Salviati to Caterina Canacci

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.