One willing prisoner to the shop board still,
For who would bear the frowns of angry masters,
The jokes and jeers of scavengers and soot-boys
With all the insult of unmanly title,
The honest tailor is obliged to take,
When he himself might his quietus make
With trav’ling. Who would slavery bear,
And groan and sweat upon a dreary shop board,
But that the thought of something worse than stitching
That sting of poverty, whose unwelcome gripe,