Perchance a kingly pericranium once Borrow'd a look of diguity from thee; Then you peep'd down on ev'ry other sconce, Just as an elephant would eye a flea. Then was each glorious thought beneath thy care, Thou might'st be said to hatch each royal whim; Except, indeed, oh! tegument of hair, The nightcap claim'd the royal dreams so grim. Or else a prince's head you may have warm'd, (For princes, we are told, wear wigs call'd scratches), Where nought but god-like fancies ever swarm'd, Whence wisdom emanated in large batches. Oh, gentle wig, if such a fate was thine, Thou must have felt each hair of thee grow For princes ever with great virtues shine, I never knew a prince that got in debt, Or broke his word, or treated ill his friend, Or squandered thousands on some idle bet, Or injur'd morals when he ought to mend. Wig, let me tell thee, if thou know'st it not, Or place his good in women, wine and dinners. Perchance a marquis, or perchance a duke, Or earl, or baron, wore thee, wig of fame; A bishop's upper works you may have deck'd, Whose form was by no paunch, so montrous, spoil'd, No, heaven be praised! our British bishops, bless 'em, Are all as thin and meek as saints of old; The people all so willingly caress 'em, Scarce deeming them of common earthly mould Cover'd, perchance, the noddle of a cook; If so, I love him, whether saint or sinner, For, oh, I rev'rence more than bed or book, The man that kindly sets me down to dinner. Then, by degrees, methinks I see thee go From thence descending to the other end, Some shoeblack seizes thee, in lane or street, And as you once were known of heads the friend, So now you deign to furbish for the feet. Cast off by him, thy latter end was near, So some great man, or man that would be great, Frets, fumes, and speechifies, so wond'rous big, But sinks at last, so mutable is fate, Into a downright mopstick and a wig. Farewell, peruque! and while my thanks I give, LCY. |