“By your awkward address, you’re that thing which should carry,
With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry.
By your language, I judge, you think me a wench;
He that makes love to me, must make it in French.
Thou that’s drawn by two beasts, and carry’st a brute,
Canst thou vainly e’er hope, I’ll answer thy suit?
Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six,
No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix:
Then on the grand-paw you’d look very great,
With your new-fashion’d glasses, and nasty old seat.