Or grace the hand-cuffs o’er the Inspector’s chair.
Oft did the cook-maid to their flatt’ries yield,
Their fast how oft the rabbit-pie hath broke;
How many an area’s been their triumph’s field,
How much cold meat fall’n ’neath their sturdy stroke!
Let not harsh censure mock their nightly toil,
Their stolen chats and area conquests sure;
Nor Richard Mayne with too much strictness spoil
The short and simple suppers they procure.
Nor you, householders, fix on them the fault,