Their downy feathers, the air whirl'd
about: The other, the sea vainly tost too and fro.
Now Lycas began to be friends with me: and Tryph?“na, as a mark of
her love, threw the bottom of her wine upon Gito: At what time,
Eumolpus, quite drunk, aim'd at rallery on those that were bald and
branded; till having spent his life-less stock, he return'd to his
verses; and designing an elegy on the loss of hair, thus began.
Nature's chief ornament, the hair is lost,
Those vernal locks, feel winter's blast:
Now the bald temples mown their banish'd shade,
And bristles shine o' the sun-burnt head.
The joys, deceitful nature does first pay
Our age, it snatches first away.
Unhappy mortal, that but now
The lovely grace of hair, did'st know:
Bright as the sun's or Cynthia's beams,
Now worse than brass, and only seems
Like th' mushroom, that in gardens springs.
From sporting girls, you'll frighted run,
And that death will the sooner come:
Know that part of your head is gone.
He wou'd have condemn'd us to hear more, and I believe worse than the
former; if an attendant of Tryph?“na, had not disturb'd him: who
taking Gito aside, dress'd him up in her mistresses tower; and to
restore him perfectly to his former figure, drawing false eye-brows
out of her patch-box, placed 'em so exactly, Nature might have
mistaken 'em for her own work.
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