Classic Poem

P ONTIUS (who loves, you know, a joke,
Much better than he loves his life)
Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred wife.

Talking of you, said he, my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town,
One ask'd, if that high furze of hair
Was, bona fide, all your own.

Her own! most certain, t'other said;
For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye,
The hair was bought, the money paid,
And the receipt was sign'd Ducailly.

Pontia (that civil prudent she,
Who values wit much less than sense,
And never darts a repartee,
But purely in her own defence).

Replied, these friends of yours, my dear,
Are given extremely much to satire!
But prithee, husband, let one hear
Sometimes less wit, and more good nature.

Now I have one unlucky thought,
That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit;
Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought:
Pray bring your brother wits to see't.