The Contents were these, or to this purpose.
Madam,
A Poetess you are, and Prophet too,
Thus to divine I’m gone from you
Eternally. ’Tis true: D’ye think that I can eat,
Though ne’re so choice, always one sort of meat?
No faith; I’d rather wear a Porters frock,
Then to be shrowded in one womans smock.
You say you are with child; Pish, don’t complain,
’Tis but the product of your fruitful brain: