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He must have known me if he had seen me as he was wont to see me, for he was in the habit of flogging me constantly. Perhaps he did not recognize me by my face.
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He was a sex junkie with an insatiable habit.’
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Her cap of velvet could not hold The tresses of her hair of gold, That flowed and floated like the stream. And fell in masses down her neck.
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Her golden locks she roundly did uptie in braided trammels, that no looser hairs did out of order stray about her dainty ears.
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Her hair down-gushing in an armful flows, And floods her ivory neck, and glitters as she goes.
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Her hair In ringlets rather dark than fair, Does down her ivory bosom roll, And hiding half adorns the whole.
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Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow– If that be all the difference in his love, I’ll get me such a colored periwig.
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Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves, (Green leaves upon her golden hair!) Green grasses through the yellow sheaves Of Autumn corn are not more fair.
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Her hair was not more sunny than her heart, though like a natural golden coronet it circled her dear head with careless art.
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Her head was bare, but for her native ornament of hair, which in a simple knot was tied above–sweet negligence, unheeded bait of love!
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Her head was bare; But for her native ornament of hair; Which in a simple knot was tied above, Sweet negligence, unheeded bait of love!
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Her locks are plighted like the fleece of wool That Jason and his Grecian mates achiev’d, As pure as gold, yet not from gold deriv’d; As full of sweets as sweet of sweets is full.
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Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre.
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Her luxuriant hair,–it was like the sweep of a swift wing in visions!
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Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia; Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, Which makes her seat of Belmont Colcho’s strond, And many Jasons come in quest of her.
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His hair is of a good color,–an excellent color; your chestnut was ever the only color.
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His hair stood upright like porcupine quills.
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His head, Not yet by time completely silver’d o’er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpair’d.
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Hoary whiskers and a forky beard.
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How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
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