And darlings who have curls are curled,
While those who've none buy plenty:
The Wizard keeps the key, 'tis true,
To turn grey locks to raven hue,
And makes bald coots of sixty-two
Become smart youths of twenty.
My hair is getting thin, and so
To Arcady I sometimes go
In search of "balm," for you must know
I hold "Dum spiro, spero:"