This heart-ache by the “hazard of a dye”
That Fashion dooms my hair to?—Dye:—a wash:—
No more:—Poison, perhaps? ay, that’s the rub
To bring paralysis: the ‘harmless wash’
With lead and sulphur, from the depths profound
Of Acheron, is loaded: and who knows
But when I shuffle off last season’s coil,
And tone the little hair I call my own
To match my latest chignon’s altered hue,
Disease in my ‘frizzettes’ may lurk unseen,