When the piercing north comes thundering forth,
Let a barren face beware;
For a trick it will find, with a razor of wind,
To shave a face that's bare.
But there's many a nice and strange device
That doth the beard disgrace;
But he that is in such a foolish sin
Is a traitor to his face.
Now of beards there be such company,
And fashions such a throng,
That it is very hard to handle a beard,
Tho' it be never so long.
The Roman T, in its bravery,
Both first itself disclose,
But so high it turns, that oft it burns
With the flames of a torrid nose.
The stiletto-beard, oh, it makes me afear'd,
It is so sharp beneath,
For he that doth place a dagger in 's face,
What wears he in his sheath?
But, methinks, I do itch to go thro' the stitch
The needle-beard to amend,
Which, without any wrong, I may call too long,
For a man can see no end.
The soldier's beard doth march in shear'd,
In figure like a spade,
With which he'll make his enemies quake,
And think their graves are made.
* * * * *
What doth invest a bishop's breast,
But a milk-white spreading hair?
Which an emblem may be of integrity
Which doth inhabit there.
* * * * *
But oh, let us tarry for the beard of King Harry,
That grows about the chin,
With his bushy pride, and a grove on each side,
And a champion ground between.
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