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

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.

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

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

Has death his fopperies?