Aye! light as a transparent purse.
But Crop’s an estate in the fens,
Deeply dipp’d in the water we hear,
For his steward the reck’ning sends,
And it brings him in nothing a year.
To a widow, some say, he is sold,
Who keeps in the Borough a shop,
As she kill’d her first deary, behold!
A beautiful prospect for Crop.
In an old maid’s affection’s Crop’s place;