When Beauty Is Bald
By Edward Dyson
Ive sung of Honors golden hair
And Heros auburn tresses,
Of Bellas back abundance, where
The sun throws his caresses;
Ive sung of curl, and coil, and braid;
On meshes Ive dilated,
Until at last Im sore afraid
Theres nothing re the hair of maid
That I have left unstated.
Twill much relieve the constant strain
Of rhyming to extol her
When on the roof of Sophies brain
Appears a bright cupola.
The poets verse will freshly run,
Effects will come much faster,
If he may tell the darling one
Her skull is glowing like the sun
And smooth as alabaster.
New stimulus the singer nerves,
When beauty, scorning switches,
Adds to her many swelling curves
A baldness that bewitches.
Weve sung too many wigs, I swear,
And now the poet mocks myths,
For Juliet in her head of air
Outshines the moon, and everywhere,
Love really laughs at locksmiths.