Sir Richard Fanshawe

On a Lady that vowed not to curl her hair till her Brother returned from beyond sea

Celia hath for a brother’s absence sworn
(Rash oath) that since her tresses cannot mourn
In black, because unshorn Apollo’s hair
Darts not a greater splendour through the air,
She’ll make them droop in her neglect: forget
Those rings which her white hand in order set,
And curiously did every morning curl
Into a thousand snares the wanton purl.
But they are disobedient to command;
And swear they owe no homage to her hand;
That Nature is their Mistress, in her name
The privilege, which they were born to, claim;
Scorning to have it said the hair gave place
To the perfections which all parts do grace:
So wind themselves in wreaths, and curl now more
By carelessness, than by her care before.
Like a crisp’d Comet which the stars pursue
In throngs, and mortals with pale horror view
Threat’ning some great man’s death, such light displays
Her brow: or like a saint crownèd with rays.
Lady, what boots neglect of face or hair?
You must use art if you will grow less fair.