Though I own—who can face it with pleasure?—
I’m getting as bald as an egg!
As older we grow, how unpleasant
To pause and reflect with distaste
That the few scattered spikes seen at present,
Must merge in wide calvity’s (?) waste!
But Time, a most pitiless master,
Cries “Onward!” and mows off one’s crop,
Ah! never does Time travel faster
Than when one desires him to stop.