}
Who, scattering your infection through the pit, }
With aching hearts and empty purses sit, }
To take your dear five shillings worth of wit. }
The praise you give him, in your kindest mood,
Comes dribbling from you, just like drops of blood;
And then you clap so civilly, for fear
The loudness might offend your neighbour's ear,
That we suspect your gloves are lined within,
For silence sake, and cotton'd next the skin.