They mean to draw the custom from his stall.
The cinder-wench in dust-cart seated high,
With arms begrim’d, and dirty as her sieve,
The ragged trulls, who, sprats and herrings cry,
The meanest trollops, have a right to live.
Nor you, ye belles! impute the fault to these,
If at the glittering ball they not appear,
Where music has a thousand charms to please,
And with its sweetness almost wounds the ear.
Will Almack, or the goddess of Soho,