Volume III Part 14 (2/2)

ELEGIA XIV.[210]

Puellam consolatur cui prae nimia cura comae deciderant.

Leave colouring thy tresses, I did cry; Now hast thou left no hairs at all to dye.

But what had been more fair had they been kept?

Beyond thy robes thy dangling locks had swept.

Fear'dst thou to dress them being fine and thin, Like to the silk the curious[211] Seres spin.

Or threads which spider's slender foot draws out, Fastening her light web some old beam about?

Not black nor golden were they to our view, Yet although [n]either, mixed of either's hue; 10 Such as in hilly Ida's watery plains, The cedar tall, spoiled of his bark, retains.

Add[212] they were apt to curl a hundred ways, And did to thee no cause of dolour raise.

Nor hath the needle, or the comb's teeth reft them, The maid that kembed them ever safely left them.

Oft was she dressed before mine eyes, yet never, s.n.a.t.c.hing the comb to beat the wench, outdrive her.

Oft in the morn, her hairs not yet digested, Half-sleeping on a purple bed she rested; 20 Yet seemly like a Thracian Baccha.n.a.l, That tired doth rashly[213] on the green gra.s.s fall.

When they were slender and like downy moss, Thy[214] troubled hairs, alas, endured great loss.

How patiently hot irons they did take, In crooked trannels[215] crispy curls to make.

I cried, ”'Tis sin, 'tis sin, these hairs to burn, They well become thee, then to spare them turn.

Far off be force, no fire to them may reach, Thy very hairs will the hot bodkin teach.” 30 Lost are the goodly locks, which from their crown, Phoebus and Bacchus wished were hanging down.

Such were they as Diana[216] painted stands, All naked holding in her wave-moist hands.

Why dost thy ill-kembed tresses' loss lament?

Why in thy gla.s.s dost look, being discontent?

Be not to see with wonted eyes inclined; To please thyself, thyself put out of mind.

No charmed herbs of any harlot scathed thee, No faithless witch in Thessal waters bathed thee. 40 No sickness harmed thee (far be that away!), No envious tongue wrought thy thick locks' decay.

By thine own hand and fault thy hurt doth grow, Thou mad'st thy head with compound poison flow.

Now Germany shall captive hair-tires send thee, And vanquished people curious dressings lend thee.

Which some admiring, O thou oft wilt blus.h.!.+

And say, ”He likes me for my borrowed bush.

Praising for me some unknown Guelder[217] dame, But I remember when it was my fame.” 50 Alas she almost weeps, and her white cheeks, Dyed red with shame to hide from shame she seeks.

She holds, and views her old locks in her lap; Ay me! rare gifts unworthy such a hap!

Cheer up thyself, thy loss thou may'st repair, And be hereafter seen with native hair.

FOOTNOTES:

[210] Not in Isham copy or ed. A.

[211] The original has ”colorati Seres.”

[212] So ed. B.--Ed. C ”And.”

[213] ”Temere.”

[214] Old eds. ”They.”

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