Who’s sides are ne’er to stays confin’d,
To cramp their natural ease behind.
Nor modestly do they think shame,
To act what I don’t chuse to name;
Nor do they stop, when they think meet,
To act their lewdness in the street;
Whole lots of them do nightly sport,
With black and grey, and every sort:
Oft in a cannhouse you may view,
A gang of this sweet scented crew.