Unhappy Tomkins! late thy ringlets rare,
E’en Wombwell’s self to rival might despair.
Now with thy smooth crown, nor the fledgling’s chops,
Nor East-born Mechi’s magic razor strops,
Can vie! And laughing maids you fly in dread,
Lest they should see the horrors of your head!
Laurie, like death, hath clouded o’er your morn.
Tomkins, you’re dish’d! Your Jeune France locks are shorn.
A SCRAP FROM CERVANTES.
“Deliver me from the devil,” cried the Squire, “is it possible that a magistrate, or what d’ye call him, green as a fig, should appear no better than an ass in your worship’s eyes? By the Lord, I’ll give you leave to pluck off every hair of my beard if that be the case.”