§1.14.1Dicebam 'medicare tuos desiste capillos!' §1.14.2Tingere quam possis, iam tibi nulla coma est.
I used to say, 'Stop treating your hair with potions!' Now you have no hair left for you to dye.
§1.14.3At si passa fores, quid erat spatiosius illis?
But if you had allowed it to be, what was more abundant than those locks?
§1.14.4Contigerant imum, qua patet usque, latus.
They had reached all the way down to the bottom of your flank.
§1.14.5Quid, quod erant tenues, et quos ornare timeres?
What of the fact that they were so fine, such as you would fear to dress?
§1.14.6Vela colorati qualia Seres habent, §1.14.7Vel pede quod gracili deducit aranea filum, §1.14.8Cum leve deserta sub trabe nectit opus.
like the veils that the colorfully clad Seres have, or the thread that a spider draws down with its slender foot, when it weaves its light work beneath an abandoned beam.
§1.14.9Nec tamen ater erat nec erat tamen aureus ille, §1.14.10Sed, quamvis neuter, mixtus uterque color — §1.14.11Qualem clivosae madidis in vallibus Idae §1.14.12Ardua derepto cortice cedrus habet.
Yet that color was neither black nor was it golden, but, though neither, a mixture of both — such as, in the wet valleys of hilly Ida, the towering cedar has when its bark is stripped away.
Add that they were both easy to manage and suited for a hundred curls, and they were the cause of no pain to you.
§1.14.15Non acus abrupit, non vallum pectinis illos.
No hairpin tore them, no row of teeth on the comb damaged them.
§1.14.16Ornatrix tuto corpore semper erat; §1.14.17Ante meos saepe est oculos ornata nec umquam §1.14.18Bracchia derepta saucia fecit acu.
The hair-stylist was always safe in her person; often she was styled before my eyes, and never did she scratch and wound the maid's arms with a snatched-up pin.
Often, too, in the morning, with her hair not yet arranged, she lay half-reclined on her purple couch.
§1.14.21Tum quoque erat neclecta decens, ut Threcia Bacche, §1.14.22Cum temere in viridi gramine lassa iacet.
Even then she was beautiful in her neglect, like a Thracian Bacchant, when she lies exhausted at random on the green grass.
§1.14.23Cum graciles essent tamen et lanuginis instar, §1.14.24Heu, male vexatae quanta tulere comae!
Though they were nevertheless so delicate and like down, alas, what sufferings did those badly abused locks endure!
How patiently they submitted themselves to iron and fire, so that a bound curl might be made in a twisted ring!
§1.14.27Clamabam: 'scelus est istos, scelus urere crines! §1.14.28Sponte decent; capiti, ferrea, parce tuo! §1.14.29Vim procul hinc remove! non est, qui debeat uri;
I used to cry out: 'It is a crime, a crime to burn those tresses!' 'They are beautiful of themselves; spare your head, cruel girl!' 'Remove all force far from here!
§1.14.30Erudit admotas ipse capillus acus. ' §1.14.31Formosae periere comae — quas vellet Apollo, §1.14.32Quas vellet capiti Bacchus inesse suo!
This is not hair that ought to be burned;' 'the hair itself instructs the pins brought near to it.' The beautiful hair has perished — which Apollo would have wished, which Bacchus would have wished to be on his own head!
I would have compared them to those which once the naked Dione is painted as holding up with her wet hand.
§1.14.35Quid male dispositos quereris periisse capillos?
Why do you lament that your poorly arranged hair has perished?
§1.14.36Quid speculum maesta ponis, inepta, manu?
Why do you put down the mirror with a sad hand, foolish girl?
You are not looked at by yourself with eyes that are accustomed to you; in order to please yourself, you must be unmindful of yourself.
§1.14.39Non te cantatae laeserunt paelicis herbae, §1.14.40Non anus Haemonia perfida lavit aqua; §1.14.41Nec tibi vis morbi nocuit — procul omen abesto! — §1.14.42Nec minuit densas invida lingua comas.
No enchanted herbs of a rival have harmed you, no treacherous old crone washed you with Haemonian water; Nor has the power of sickness harmed you — far be the omen! — nor has an envious tongue thinned your thick hair.
You feel the loss caused by your own hand and fault; you yourself were administering mixed poisons to your own head.
Now Germany will send you captive tresses; you will be safe by the gift of a triumphed-over nation.
§1.14.47O quam saepe comas aliquo mirante rubebis, §1.14.48Et dices: 'empta nunc ego merce probor, §1.14.49Nescio quam pro me laudat nunc iste Sygambram. §1.14.50Fama tamen memini cum fuit ista mea. ' §1.14.51Me miserum! lacrimas male continet oraque dextra §1.14.52Protegit ingenuas picta rubore genas.
Oh, how often will you blush when someone admires your hair, and say: 'I am now praised for a purchased commodity,' 'that man is now praising some Sygambrian woman instead of me.' 'Yet I remember when that glory was my own.' Miserable me! She can hardly contain her tears, and with her right hand protects her noble cheeks, painted with a blush.
She holds her former hair in her lap and gazes at it, ah me, gifts not worthy of that place!
§1.14.55Collige cum vultu mentem! reparabile damnum est.
Compose your mind along with your face! The damage is repairable.
§1.14.56Postmodo nativa conspiciere coma.
By and by you will be seen with your natural hair.