Growing brighter and brighter at every rub—
Would any man ruin her? No, Mr. Scrub!
No man that is manly would work her mishap—
No man that is manly would covet her cap—
Nor her apron—her hose—nor her gown made of stuff—
Nor her gin, nor her tea, nor her wet pinch of snuff!
Alas! so she thought, but that slippery hope
Has betrayed her, as tho' she had trod on her soap!
And she—whose support, like the fishes that fly,
Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky;