Should soil his lily dress.
His powder’d head, his silken hose,
The dashing buckles on his toes,
Seem’d suited for a court;
The muslin round a pudding roll’d
In which he kept his chin from cold,
Was of the finest sort.
He trod on slow; but ’midst the tide
A brewer’s dray was seen to glide—
Unmindful of the mud;