To a Lady Who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair - Lord Byron

Lyrics

These locks, which fondly thus entwine In firmer chains our hearts confine Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense love orations Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it; Then wherefore should we sigh and whine With groundless jealousy repine With silly whims and fancies frantic Merely to make our love romantic? Why should you weep like Lydia Languish And fret with self-created anguish? Or doom the lovеr you have chosen On winter to nights to sigh half frozеn; In leafless shades to sue for pardon Only because the scene's a garden? For gardens seem, by one consent (Since Shakespeare set the precedent Since Juliet first declared her passion) To from the place of assignation Oh! would some modern muse inspire And seat her by a sea-coal fire; Or had the bard at Christmas written And laid the scene of love in Britain He surely, in commiseration Had changed the place of declaration In Italy I've no objection Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here our climate is so rigid That love itself is rather frigid: Think on our chilly situation And curb this rage for imitation Then let us meet, as oft we've done Beneath the influence of the sun; Or, if at midnight I must meet you Within your mansion let me greet you: There we can love for hours together Much better, in such snowy weather Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves That ever witness'd rural loves; Then, if my passion fail to please Next night I'll be content to freeze; No more I'll give a loose to laughter But curse my fate for ever after