Speaks the dear Charmer, who’s my Toast.
Miss Hutch-in-son.
The Place were Rabbits are confin’d,
The Place where Strangers are refresh’d;
And what best pleas’d my Mother’s Mind,
Tells you the Charmer of my Breast.
Miss Shuttle-worth.
What a Weaver will toss about all the Day long,
And a Value, whose Praise can’t be nam’d in my Song,
Tells the Name of my Charmer who’s witty and young.