O there never was a taylor that could stitch it nine times quicker;
Twas ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto,
Till he work’d up all the thread, then he ripp’d up the slit O.
“R⸺,” dames cry, “what a ravishing creature!
“His pipe! and his shake! and each delicate feature!”
But la! what a pity, divine R⸺!
Your pipe can but carry the p— from your belly!
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
If wedlock’s your plan, ere you scheme to open trenches,
Humbugs pray take heed of our modern made-up wenches: