Bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Beware of her fair hair, for she excels
All women in the magic of her locks;
And when she winds them round a young man's neck,
She will not ever set him free again.
Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air.
It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette,
It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet;
'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist,
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed—
'Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet.
And yonder sits a maiden,
The fairest of the fair,
With gold in her garment glittering,
And she combs her golden hair.
I pray tbee let me and my fellow have
A hair of the dog that bit us last night.
But she is vanish'd to her shady home
Under the deep, inscrutable; and there
Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.
Cui flavam religas comam
Simplex munditiis?
For whom do you bind your hair, plain in your neatness?
One hair of a woman can draw more than a hundred pair of oxen.
The little wind that hardly shook
The silver of the sleeping brook
Blew the gold hair about her eyes,—
A mystery of mysteries.
So he must often pause, and stoop,
And all the wanton ringlets loop
Behind her dainty ear—emprise
Of slow event and many sighs.
My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbands rare,
And lace my bodice blue;
For why, she cries, sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?
Alas, I scarce can go or creep,
While Rubin is away.
Though time has touched it in his flight,
And changed the auburn hair to white.
Her cap of velvet could not hold
The tresses of her hair of gold,
That flowed and floated like the stream.
And fell in masses down her neck.
You manufacture, with the aid of unguents, a false head of hair, and your bald and dirty skull is covered with dyed locks. There is no need to have a hairdresser for your head. A sponge, Phoebus, would
do the business better.
You collect your straggling hairs on each side, Marinus, endeavoring to conceal the vast expanse of your shining bald pate by the locks which still grow on your temples. But the hairs disperse, and return to their own place with every gust of wind; flanking your bare poll on either side with crude tufts. We might imagine we saw Hermeros of Cydas standing between Speudophorus and Telesphorus. Why not confess yourself an old man? Be content to seem what you really are, and let the barber shave off the rest of your hair. There is nothing more contemptible than a bald man who pretends to have hair.
The very hairs of your head are all numbered.
Munditiis capimur: non sine lege capillis.
We are charmed by neatness of person; let not thy hair be out of order.
Her head was bare;
But for her native ornament of hair;
Which in a simple knot was tied above,
Sweet negligence, unheeded bait of love!
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.
Hoary whiskers and a forky beard.
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair
Which adds new. glory to the shining sphere;
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost,
For after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
