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Whiteleaded, raddled, she'll outblush her prime,
And still her latest tête becomes her best.
Content tho' she may bloat like Jonah's gourd,
Or shrivel like a hemlock in the frost.
'I was a may-pole in my girl-hood raw,
But how improved in hips and bosom since,'
The monster titters, whilst the bag-of-bones
Bethinks her; 'I am slim and modish now,
That once was blowsy, and the cabbage rose
Became me not as now the lilies do!'
Madam Pomeroy:
Well, Avis, wellnatheless I will not mind.
You shall not say you vex'd poor Pomeroy,
Who'd work her fingers to the bone for you.
Here in the bag I have the hood and cloak,
The capuchin you bade me bring you
Avis:
Good,
