Ridentes fugis et times puellas.
Ut mortem citius venire credas,
Scito jam capitis perisse partem.
A FREE TRANSLATION BY “PUNCH.”
Tomkins, you’re dish’d! thy light luxuriant hair,
Like “a distress,” hath left thy caput bare;
Thy temples mourn th’ umbrageous locks, and yield
A crop as stunted as a stubble field.
Rowland and Ross! your greasy gifts are vain,
You give the hair you’re sure to cut again.