Quotes
Quotes about Hair
Let but the commons hear this testament, Which (pardon me) I do not mean to read, And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Upon their issue.
It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness.
And he said, My son shall not go down with you; for his brother is dead, and he is left alone: if mischief befall him by the way in the which we go, then shall ye bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
And from that luckless hour my tyrant fair Has led and turned me by a single hair.
His hair stood upright like porcupine quills.
Dear, dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms?
And though it be a two-foot trout, 'Tis with a single hair pulled out.
Those curious locks so aptly twin'd, Whose every hair a soul doth bind.
It is foolish to pluck out one's hair for sorrow, as if grief could be assuaged by baldness. [Lat., Stultum est in luctu capillum sibi evellere, quasi calvito maeror levaretur.]
An harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, And fell adown his shoulders with losse care.
She knows her man, and when you rant and swear, Can draw you to her with a single hair.
Beware of her fair hair, for she excels All women in the magic of her locks; And when she winds them round a young man's neck, She will not ever set him free again.
Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream's, like a meteor, to the troubled air.
It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet; 'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed-- 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet.
And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair, With gold in her garment glittering, And she combs her golden hair.
I pray thee let me and my fellow have A hair of the dog that bit us last night.
But she is vanish'd to her shady home Under the deep, inscrutable; and there Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.
For whom do you bind your hair, plain in your neatness? [Lat., Cui flavam religas comam Simplex munditiis?]
One hair of a woman can draw more than a hundred pair of oxen.
The little wind that hardly shook The silver of the sleeping brook Blew the gold hair about her eyes,-- A mystery of mysteries. So he must often pause, and stoop, An all the wanton ringlets loop Behind her dainty ear--emprise Of slow event and many sighs.
The person who doesn't scatter the morning dew will not comb gray hairs
The hair is the richest ornament of women.
Prejudice is like a hair across your cheek. You can't see it, you can't find it with your fingers, but you keep brushing at it because the feel of it is irritating.
It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less with baldness.
