When Nature form'd Sir Samuel Lank,
She shaped him, in an idle prank,
Below her usual level.
His eyes appear like kidney beans;
The ladies call him plain, which means
As ugly as the devil.

And yet Sir Samuel “has a taste:”
His lawn is by Acacias graced,
(I sing no idle fable,)
And a young row of sightly elms,
From parlour-window gaze o'erwhelms
His coach-house and his stable.

Meantime his whiskers, in a peak,
Slope down, invading either cheek;
Of late their quantum's double:
While twin mustachios o'er his lip
Impending, make the sufferer sip
His soup in fear and trouble.

Quoth Richard, “What a curly head!
Is he a Lancer?”—“No,” quoth Ned:
“The man must suit the place:
Taste and improvement are his trade—
Now that the stable's hid in shade,
He's planting out his Face.”