Yet seemly like a Thracian Bacchanal,
That tired doth rashly[213] on the green grass fall.
When they were slender and like downy moss,
Thy[214] troubled hairs, alas, endured great loss.
How patiently hot irons they did take,
In crookèd trannels[215] crispy curls to make.
I cried, "'Tis sin, 'tis sin, these hairs to burn,
They well become thee, then to spare them turn.
Far off be force, no fire to them may reach,
Thy very hairs will the hot bodkin teach."30