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A lofty cane, a sword with silver hilt, A ring, two watches, and a snuff box gilt.

'Tis mean for empty praise of wit to write, As fopplings grin to show their teeth are white.

I marched the lobby, twirled my stick, . . . . The girls all cried, "He's quite the kick."

Of all the fools that pride can boast, A Coxcomb claims distinction most.

A beau is one who arranges his curled locks gracefully, who ever smells of balm, and cinnamon; who hums the songs of the Nile, and Cadiz; who throws his sleek arms into various attitudes; who idles away the whole day among the chair of the ladies, and is ever whispering into some one's ear; who reads little billets- doux from this quarter and that, and writes them in return; who avoids ruffling his dress by contact with his neighbour's sleeve, who knows with whom everybody is in love; who flutters from feast to feast, who can recount exactly the pedigree of Hirpinus. What do you tell me? is this a beau, Cotilus? Then a beau, Cotilus, is a very trifling thing.

Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Just as one beauty mortifies another.

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behavior, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition on the charge of a star.

A fop? In this brave, licentious age To bring his musty morals on the stage? Rhime us to reason? and our lives redress In metre, as Druids did the savages.

Has death his fopperies?