Their ripen’d fruit, all glossy as their cheek;
Nor strive, with jest, and sportive leering eye,
The custom of the youthful clerk, to seek.
Let not the pedlar, frown with eyes askew,
Nor envy them the profits of the hall;
Let him not think, that with a spiteful view,
They mean to draw the custom from his stall.
The cinder wench, in dust-cart seated high,
With hands begrim’d, and dirty as her sieve;
The ragged sluts—who sprats and herrings cry—