To get themselves shav’d in a rotative turn;
Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir,
Debate—till at length they quite heated have grown;
May nothing escape, Sir, until Madame Scrape, Sir,
Cries, “Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?”
A medley the place is, of those that sell laces,
With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets;
Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting,
And ask one another how trade with them sets:
Join’d in with Tom Hoggars and little Bob Nackers,