_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."
Those beauteous locks are gone; which Apollo might have longed for,
_and_ which Bacchus might have wished to be on his own head. With them
I might compare those, which naked Dione is painted [213] as once having
held up with her dripping hand. Why are you complaining that hair so
badly treated is gone? Why, silly girl, do you lay down the mirror [214]
with disconsolate hand? You are not seen to advantage by yourself with
eyes accustomed _to your former self._ For you to please, you ought to
be forgetful of your _former_ self.
No enchanted herbs of a rival [215] have done you this injury; no
treacherous hag has been washing you with Itæmonian water. The effects,
too, of no disease have injured you; (far away be all _bad_ omens;
[216]) nor has an envious tongue thinned your abundant locks;'twas your
own self who gave the prepared poison to your head. Now Germany will be
sending [217] for you her captured locks; by the favour of a conquered
race you will be adorned. Ah! how many a time will you have to blush, as
any one admires your hair; and _then_ you will say, "Now I am receiving
praise for a bought commodity! In place of myself, he is now bepraising
some Sygambrian girl [218] unknown to me; still, I remember _the time_
when that glory was my own."
Wretch that I am! with difficulty does she restrain her tears; and she
covers her face with her hand, having her delicate cheeks suffused with
blushes. She is venturing to look at her former locks, _placed_ in her
bosom; a treasure, alas! not fitted for that spot. [219]
Calm your feelings with your features; the loss may still be repaired.
Before long, you will become beauteous with your natural hair.