III.

The Fop may curl his Brutus wig,

And sandy whiskers stain,

And fold his cravat broad and big;

But all his arts are vain.

His nankeen trowsers we despise,

Unfit for rain or dew,

And, pinch'd in stays, he vainly tries

His strength against the yew.

The yew, the yew, &c.