I see that knave, that scoundrel, that villain Isaac “Thruppence more an up goes the donkey” Freeman has stooped to the very lowest levels in his continued claims on the Head Spat.
If the desperate gibbering of my esteemed compatriot were made corporeal as actual Head Spats, they would be thought of as barely worthy of the name, having more the aspect of a crude sack-cloth with which one might wipe night soil from ones perriwig, and being conveniently located for this purpose.
Conversely, my own would be spats acclaimed as fit for the nobility, all craft’d from shimmering samite, bedecked with gems and most cunningly wrought.
The Head Spats of JSR, gentle readers, are spoken of in hushed, awed tones. The lower classes tell stories of them, and sob into their small beer and cider.
Surely Michael Drayton spoke of my Head Spats with these words:
About which lodgings, tow’rds the upper face,
Ran a fine bordure circularly led,
As equal ‘twixt the highest high’st point and the base,
That as a zone the waist ingirdled,
That lends the zone a breathing, or a space,
‘Twixt things near view and those those far over head