Well, what I says is This--when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steem about! To be sure its very Well, when Their aint 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, Tho' a X Sherif 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 balls,-- But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bare Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem 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 Steem has ruined (G--d forgive mee) their lively Hoods, Poor Wommen 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 Angells--nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,--for that's all Bespoke,-- For the Quakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk Do their own of Themselves--even the better-most of em--aye, and evn them of middling degrees-- Why Lauk help you Babby Linen aint Bread and 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. Charnberses,--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 aint, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, aint you now by your next door naybors-- 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 Providince, 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 the 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-- But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's Backs-- And let your neighbors oxin an Asses alone,-- And every Thing thats hern,--and give every one their Hone!