No more toupees are seen
That mock at Alpine height,
And queues, with many a yard of riband bound,
All now are vanished quite.
No tongs or torturing pin,
But every head is trimmed quite snug around:
Like boys of the cathedral choir,
Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear;
Each simpler generation blooms more fair,
Till all that's artificial expire.
Vain puppy boy! think'st thou you essenced cloud,
Raised by thy puff, can vie with _Nature's_ hue?
To-morrow see the variegated crowd
With ringlets shining like the morning dew.
Enough for me: with joy I see
The different dooms our fates assign;
Be thine to love thy trade and starve,
To wear what heaven bestowed be mine.
He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs' height,
Quick thro' the frozen street he ran in shabby plight.
[7] Sir John Fielding, the late active police magistrate.
[8] Coe's father, the well-known blacksmith and alderman, now
no more.
Whilst we are discussing the subject of hair, we ought not to forget
that, according to Lyson's Environs of London,