Even the pattern from which she is working, the silk, the gold, the lawn, made happy by her touch, are sanctified, are envied,-- Avventuroso man! beato ingegno! Beata seta! beatissimo oro! Ben nato lino! inclito bel lavoro, Da chi vuol la mia dea prender disegno, Per far a vostro esempio un vestir degno, Che copra avorio, e perle ed un tesoro![78] And he adds, "Ah, that she would rather take pattern after me, and imitate the constant love I bear her!" Alessandra must have excelled in needle-work, for we find frequent mention of her favorite occupation; and it is even alluded to in the Orlando, where describing the wound of Zerbino, Ariosto uses a comparison rather too fanciful for the occasion. Così talora un bel purpureo nastro Ho veduto partir tela d'argento, Da quel bianca man più ch'alabastro Da cui partire il cor spesso mi sento. And so, I sometimes have been wont to view A hand more white than alabaster, part The silver cloth, with ribbons red of hue, A hand I often feel divide my heart.[79] Among the personal charms of Alessandra, the most striking was the beauty and luxuriance of her hair. In the days of Ariosto, fair hair, with a golden tinge, was so much admired that it became a fashion; we are even informed that the Venetian women had invented a dye, or extract, by which they discharged the natural colour of their tresses, and gave them this admired hue. Almost all Titian's and Giorgione's beauties have fair hair; the "richissima capellatura bionda" of Alessandra, was a principal charm in the eyes of her lover, but it was one she was destined to lose prematurely; during a dangerous illness, some rash and luckless physician ordered all her beautiful tresses to be cut off. The remedy, it seems, was equally unnecessary and unfortunate; but here was a fine theme for an indignant lover! and Ariosto has, accordingly, lavished on it some of his most graceful and poetical ideas. Of the three elegant sonnets[80] in which he has commemorated the incident, it is difficult to decide which is the finest--the last, perhaps, is the most spirited: the poet bursts at once into his subject, as in a transport of grief and rage. "When I think, as I do, a thousand, thousand times a-day, upon those golden tresses, which neither wisdom nor necessity, but hasty folly, tore, alas! from that fair head, I am enraged,--my cheek burns with anger,--even tears gush forth, bathing my face and bosom;--I could die to be revenged on the impious stupidity of that rash hand! O Love, if such wrong goes unpunished, thine be the reproach! Remember how Bacchus avenged on the Thracian King,[81] the clusters torn from his sacred vines: wilt thou, who art greater far than he, do less? Wilt thou suffer the loveliest and dearest of thy possessions to be audaciously ravished, and yet bear it in silence?"[82]