His wig is of flames curling over his head,
Well powder'd with white smoking ashes;
He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead,
Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread,
Which black from the oven he gnashes.
Each fire nymph his kiss from her countenance shields,
'Twould soon set her cheekbone a-frying
He spit in the tenter-ground near Spitalfields,
And the hole that it burnt and the chalk that it yields
Make a capital limekiln for drying.