Some offer you eggs laid by plovers,
Some offer the luck of the pot;
A great many offer you nothing,
They sit, like automata, dumb,
The silly ones give you a loathing,
But Fanny gives merely her thumb.
Some bore you with six-year-old gabies,
In the shape of a master or miss;
Others hold up their slobbering babies,
Which you must be a brute not to kiss: