No tongs or torturing pin,
But every head is trimm’d 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 shall expire,
Vain puppy boy! think’st thou yon 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!