Accept my best thanks for those slippers, I pray;
I prize them sincerely; they suit to a T;
And no trifle, dear madam, shall wrest them from me.
Should the sons of St. Crispin their workshops give o'er,
And the cobblers declare they will cobble no more,
What boots it to me if they throw down their awl
And come to an end, and the craft wholly fall?
Possessing such friends, with those banners unfurled,
No fear of my going barefoot through the world.
'Tis said Cinderella, a well-meaning lass,