ELEGIA 14
Puellamconsolatur cui proe nimia cura comoe deciderantLeave colouring thy tresses I did cry,
Now hast thou left no haires at all to die.
But what had beene more faire had they beene kept?
Beyond thy robes thy dangling lockes had sweept.
Feardst thou to dresse them? being fine and thinne
Like to the silke the curious Seres spinne,
Or thrids which spiders slender foote drawes out
Fastning her light web some old beame about.
Not black, nor golden were they to our viewe,
Yet although neither, mixt of eithers hue,
Such as in hilly Idas watry plaines,
The Cedar tall spoyld of his barke retaines.
Ad they were apt to curle an hundred waies,
And did to thee no cause of dolour raise.
Nor hath the needle, or the combes teeth reft them,
The maide that kembd them ever safely left them.
Oft was she drest before mine eyes, yet never,
Snatching the combe, to beate the wench out drave her.
Oft in the morne her haires not yet digested,
Halfe sleeping on a purple bed she rested,
Yet seemely like a ThracianBacchinall
That tyr'd doth rashly on the greene grasse fall.
When they were slender, and like downy mosse,
Thy troubled haires, alas, endur'd great losse.
How patiently hot irons they did take
In crooked tramells crispy curles to make.
I cryed, tis sinne, tis sinne, these haires to burne,
They well become thee, then to spare them turne.
Farre off be force, no fire to them may reach,
Thy very haires will the hot bodkin teach.
Lost are the goodly lockes, which from their crowne
Phoebus and Bacchus wisht were hanging downe.
Such were they as Diana painted stands
All naked holding in her wave-moist hands.
Why doest thy ill kembd tresses losse lament?
Why in thy glasse doest looke being discontent?
Bee not to see with wonted eyes inclinde,
To please thy selfe, thy selfe put out of minde.
No charmed herbes of any harlot skathd thee,
No faithlesse witch in Thessale waters bath'd thee.
No sicknesse harm'd thee, farre be that a way,
No envious tongue wrought thy thicke lockes decay.
By thine owne hand and fault thy hurt doth growe,
Thou mad'st thy head with compound poyson flow.
Now Germany shall captive haire-tyers send thee,
And vanquisht people curious dressings lend thee,
Which some admiring, O thou oft wilt blush
And say he likes me for my borrowed bush,
Praysing for me some unknowne Guelder dame,
But I remember when it was my fame.
Alas she almost weepes, and her white cheekes,
Died red with shame, to hide from shame she seekes.
She holds, and viewes her old lockes in her lappe,
Aye me rare gifts unworthy such a happe.
Cheere up thy selfe, thy losse thou maiest repaire,
And be heereafter seene with native haire.