Souvenirs all to the fair,
In the heyday of ecstacy given.
Lost in the frolics of youth—
In the time to which thought has recalled one;
To the Phrynes, declaring, forsooth,
That the lover for them’s not a bald one.
Only a lock of his hair,
Last of the twenty and seven;
And then the bald pate, which the wag
Has wittily likened to heaven