But he ne’er will be married, we hope,
To one in whose frost-bitten face
There’s ruin in razors and soap.
Gods! give Crop the girl kind and fair,
Of feminine manners and grace,
Whose skin is not cover’d with hair,
To kiss without scrubbing his face.
Crop once lov’d a boarding-school gig,
All his letters she stitch’d in her stays,
Which made little Tittup look big