THE CUTTEE.

  Oft by the women I am told
  “Tomkins, my boy, you’re growing o!d. 
  Look in the glass, and see how bare
  Your poll appears reflected there. 
  No ringlets play around your brow;
  ’Tis all Sir Peter Laurie-ish[1] now.”

    [1] This is a graceful as well as a literal rendering of the bard
        of Teos.  The word [Greek:  Psilon] signifying nudus,
        inanis, ’envis, fatuus; Anglice,—­Sir Peter Laurie-ish
        ED. OF “PUNCH.”]

A TRIBUTE BY PETRONIUS.

  Quod summum formae decus est, cecidere capilli,
    Vernantesque comas tristis abegit hyems
  Nunc umbra nudata sua jam tempora moerent,
    Areaque attritis nidet adusta pilis. 
  O fallax natura Deum! quae prima dedisti
    AEtati nostrae gaudia, prima rapis. 
  Infelix modo crinibus nitebas,
  Phoebo pulchrior, et sorore Phoebi: 
  At nunc laevior aere, vel rotundo
  Horti tubere, quod creavit unda,
  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. 
  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.”

“Then I tell thee,” said the master, “he is as certainly a he ass as I am Don Quixote and thou Sancho Panza, at least so he seems to me.”—­Don Quixote.

A COINCIDENCE FROM BUTLER.

  Shall hair that on a crown has place
  Become the subject of a case?

  The fundamental law of nature
  Be over-ruled by those made after?
       * * * * *
  ’Tis we that can dispose alone
  Whether your heirs (hairs) shall be your own.

Hudibras.

A CLIMAX BY “PUNCH.”