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 Seres spin,
Or threads which spider's slender foot draws out,
Fast'ning her light web some old beam about?
Not black, nor golden were they to our view,
Yet although neither, mixed of either's hue,
Such as in hilly Ida's wat'ry plains,
The cedar tall spoiled of his bark retains.
And they were apt to curl an 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,
Snatching the comb to beat the wench, out drave her.
Oft in the morn, her hairs not yet digested,
Half-sleeping on a purple bed she rested;
Yet seemly, like a Thracian bacchanal,
That tired doth rashly on the green grass fall.
When they were slender, and like downy moss,
Thy troubled hairs, alas, endured great loss.
How patiently hot irons they did take,
In crooked trammels 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."
Lost are the goodly locks, which from their crown
Phoebus and Bacchus wished were hanging down.
Such were they as Diana painted stands
All naked holding in her wave-moist hands.
Why dost thy ill-kembed tresses' loss lament?
Why in thy glass 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 Thessale waters bathed thee.
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 blush,
And say, " He likes me for my borrowed bush,
Praising for me some unknown Guelder dame,
But I remember when it was my fame."
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;
Aye me, rare gifts unworthy such a hap.
Cheer up thyself, thy loss thou mayst repair,
And be hereafter seen with native hair.