Then followed the like number of button-makers, wringing their hands with this motto:
Man’s but a Button, by my soul!
The very Grave’s a Button-hole.
After these, followed a vast number of city ricketty hopper-arsed beaux, who had been padded up, and made into a complete gentlemen, by the deceased limb-trimmer, drying their watery eyes, with cambrick hankerchiefs, and having this motto engraved on their watch cases:
He’s gone who made us human shapes,
And now we must again turn apes.
But to conclude the procession: Last of all, followed a numerous croud of journeymen taylors, who were all slip-shoed, their stockings about their heels, their hats off, a skein of thread hung carelessly about their necks; and their shirt collars were open, that they might have liberty to disturb their bosom friends. On their left sleeve was a cushion, whereon stuck abundance of Spanish and Whitchapel needles. The tails of their wigs were matted like horses’ manes, just as if they had come off the shop-board from work. On their left shoulders each had a long strip of parchment, whereon was written this motto:
The lice bite us, ’tis not deny’d, }
We bite our masters when employ’d; }
And they bite all the world beside. }