Ouid's elegies three bookes. By C.M. Epigrames by I.D.

ELEGIA. 14.

Puellam consolatur cuiprae nimia cura comae desiderant.

LEaue colouring thy tresses I did cry, Now hast thou left no haires at all to die. But what had bin more faire had they bin kept? Beyond thy robes thy dangling lackes had swept. Feard'st thou to dresse them being fine and thinne, Like to the silke the curious Seres spinne. Or thrids which spiders slender foore drawes out, Fastning her light web some old beame about. Not black, nor golden were they to our view, Yet although either mixt of eithers hue. Such as in hilly Idas watry plaines, The Cedar tall spoyl'd of his bark retaines. And they were apt to curle an hundred wayes, And did to thee no cause of dolour rayse. Nor hath the needle, or the combes teeth re••t them, The maide that kembd them euer safely left them. Oft was she drest before mine eyes, yet neuer, Snatching the combe, to bea••e the wench out driue her. Oft in the morne her haires not yet digested, Halfe sleeping on a purple bed she rested. Yet seemely like a Thracian Bacchinall, That tyr'd doth rashly on the greene grasse fall.

When they were slender, and like downy mosse, They troubled haires, alas, endur'd great losse. How patiently hot irons they did take, In crooked trannells 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 ••each. Lost are the goodly lockes, which from their crowne, Phoebus and Bacchus wisht were hanging downe. Such were they as Dia••a painted stands, All naked holding in her waue-moist hands. Why doest thy ill kembd tresses losse lament? Why in thy glasse doest••looke being discontent? Be not to see with wonted eyes inclinde, To please thy selfe, thy selfe put out of minde. No charmed herbes of any harlot skath'd thee, No fai••hlesse witch in Thessale waters bath'd thee. No sicknesse harm'd thee, farre be that away, No enuious tongue wrought thy thick lockes decay. By thine owne hand and fault thy hurt doth grow, Thou mad'st thy head with compound poyson flow. Now Germany shall captiue haire-tyers send thee, And vanqnisht 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 vnknowne 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 vnworthy such a happe.

Cheere vp thy selfe, thy losse thou maiest repaire, And be hereafter seene with natiue haire.