FastSaying
Those curious locks so aptly twin'd, Whose every hair a soul doth bind.
Thomas Carew
Hair
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The magic of a face.
— Thomas Carew
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Loe here the precious dust is layd; Whose purely-temper'd clay was made So fine that it the guest betray'd. Else the soule grew so fast within, It broke the outward shall of sinne And so was hatch'd a cherubin.
— Thomas Carew
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But an untimely grave.
— Thomas Carew
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Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream's, like a meteor, to the troubled air.
— Thomas Gray
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But she is vanish'd to her shady home Under the deep, inscrutable; and there Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.
— Thomas Hood
Hair
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