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