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.
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.