But when fresh and frisky, maids, trout-like, will tickle ’em,
Till in the net of Dame Nature they go,
Where shou’d wanton women e’er take ’em and pickle ’em,
The curing’s a pain and expence we all know.
Two fam’d learned sages, both birds of a feather,
This odd fish to see, left their pigs, plants, and land,
And tho’ they both clubb’d their wise noddles together,
The devil a one did the fish understand;
Yes, M⸺by and B⸺s, who so solemn and grave is,
Knew not, till Pat told ’em, from whence the fish came,