Nor in a fury snatch'd the comb away.The teeth ne'er touch'd you, and her constant care,Without ill arts, would have preserv'd your hair.Behind your chair I oft have seen her stand,And comb and curl it with a gentle hand:Oft have I seen it on your shoulders playUncomb'd, as on your purple bed you lay.Your artless tresses with more charms appear,Than when adorn'd with all your cost and care.When on the grass the Thracian nymphs recline,Of Bacchus full, and weary of their wine,Less lovely are their locks, than yours, less fairThe ringlets of their soft dishevell'd hair:Softer was thine, like fleecy down it felt,And to the finger did as freely yield,How didst thou torture it, the curls to turn,Now with hot irons at thy toilet burn?This rack, with what obedience did it bear?"Ah spare," I cried, "thy patient tresses spare!To hurt them is a sin: this needless toil