Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,
Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast beef;
Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid
That smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handkerchief.
George Barnwell.
Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?
Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late;
If on beauty 'stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,
Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.
Omnes.