Why should I be punished in my affections, if thy husband does decay through _length of_ years? Wast thou married to the old fellow by my contrivance? See how many hours of sleep the Moon gave [201] to the youth beloved by _her_; and yet her beauty is not inferior to thine. The parent of the Gods himself, that he might not see thee so often, joined two nights together [202] for _the attainment of_ his desires. I had finished my reproaches; you might be sure she heard them; _for_ she blushed'. However, no later than usual did the day arise. ELEGY XIV. _His mistress having been in the habit of dyeing her hair with noxious compositions, she has nearly lost it, becoming almost bald. He reminds her of his former advice, and entreats her to abstain from the practice, on which there may be a chance of her recovering it._ |I always used to say; "Do leave off doctoring your hair." [203] _And_ now you have no hair _left_, that you can be dyeing. But, if you had let it alone, what was more plenteous than it? It used to reach down your sides, so far as ever [204] they extend. And besides: Was it not so fine, that you were afraid to dress [205] it; just like the veils [206] which the swarthy Seres use? Or _like_ the thread which the spider draws out with her slender legs, when she fastens her light work beneath the neglected beam? And yet its colour was not black, nor yet was it golden, but though it was neither, it was a mixture of them both. A _colour_, such as the tall cedar has in the moist vallies of craggy Ida, when its bark is stript off. Besides, it was _quite_ tractable, and falling into a thousand ringlets; and it was the cause of no trouble to you. Neither the bodkin, [208] nor the tooth of the comb _ever_ tore it; your tire woman always had a whole skin. Many a time was it dressed before my eyes; and _yet_, never did the bodkin [210] seized make wounds in her arms. Many a time too, in the morning, her locks not yet arranged, was she lying on the purple couch, with her face half upturned. Then even, unadorned, was she beauteous; as when the Thracian Bacchanal, in her weariness, throws herself carelessly upon the green grass. Still, fine as it was, and just like down, what evils, alas! did her tortured hair endure! How patiently did it submit itself to the iron and the fire; [211] that the curls might become crisp with their twisting circlets. "'Tis a shame," I used to cry, "'tis a shame, to be burning that hair; naturally it is becoming; do, cruel one, be merciful to your own head. Away with all violence from it; it is not _hair_ that deserves to be scorched; the very locks instruct [212] the bodkins when applied."