TO A MILLINER.
Forgive me, pale Miss, if you think I am rude,
But your mein and your manners declare you a prude;
With finicking fingers you coil up the lace,
Your caps and your ribbons, with ill-contriv’d grace;
O! who but a fool would e’er venture to take,
For a bride such a trumpery gingerbread cake;
Yet whose humble conceits, without twopence to spare,
Would lead her to think she’s a match for a mayor.