For if it warnt for Washing,--and whare Bills is concarnd, What’s the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Headication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays--fit for any Cityation? Well, what I says is this--when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about! To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with,--but not to hurt human kind, Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that’s loaded with hot water, Thof a xSherrif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff--wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing[13] balls,-- But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steam rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap,--and eating other Peple’s grubs! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!) And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steam has ruined (G--d forgive mee) their lively Hoods, Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at-- They won’t do for Angell’s--nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,--for that’s all Bespoke,-- For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind Folk Do their own of Themselves--even the bettermost of em--aye, and evn them of middling degrees-- Why--Lauk help you--Babby Linen and Bread ant Cheese! Nor we can’t go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers, Like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Chamber, and that’s what we must! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have suck’d us and hanged round our Mutherly necks, And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing-- You ant, blame you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear’d At, you great Horse God-meril things, ant you now by your next door nayhbours-- Lawk, I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp-- And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round They’ll scruntch your Bones some day--I’ll be bound And no more nor be a gudgement,--for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providence, which your a doing,--nor not fit It should, For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation-- And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs--