Unravag’d still the sacred growth would shine:
The majesty of manhood, still unshorn,
Shou’d sweep my breast luxuriant as the vine.
Now, woe is me! a dupe to impious zeal,
Unequal war with Nature do I wage;
While, as each sun returns, the ruthless steel,
To waste her produce, plies its whetted rage.
Like Grecia’s godlike sages dare I feel,
My shaggy chin shou’d mock this silly age.