For I am full of Matter, the Spirit within me constraineth me.  Behold my Belly is as Wine which hath no vent, it is ready to burst like new Bottles.  I will speak that I may be refreshed:  I will open my Lips, and answer.  Let me not, I pray you, accept any Man’s Person, neither let me give flattering Titles unto Man.  For I know not to give flattering Titles; in so doing my Maker would soon take me away. [1]

  Mr. SPECTATOR,

I have formerly read with great Satisfaction your Papers about Idols, and the Behaviour of Gentlemen in those Coffee-houses where Women officiate, and impatiently waited to see you take India and China Shops into Consideration:  But since you have pass’d us over in silence, either that you have not as yet thought us worth your Notice, or that the Grievances we lie under have escaped your discerning Eye, I must make my Complaints to you, and am encouraged to do it because you seem a little at leisure at this present Writing.  I am, dear Sir, one of the top China-Women about Town; and though I say it, keep as good Things, and receive as fine Company as any o this End of the Town, let the other be who she will:  In short, I am in a fair Way to be easy, were it not for a Club of Female Rakes, who under pretence of taking their innocent Rambles, forsooth, and diverting the Spleen, seldom fail to plague me twice or thrice a-day to cheapen Tea, or buy a Skreen; What else should they mean? as they often repeat it.  These Rakes are your idle Ladies of Fashion, who having nothing to do, employ themselves in tumbling over my Ware.  One of these No-Customers (for by the way they seldom or never buy any thing) calls for a Set of Tea-Dishes, another for a Bason, a third for my best Green-Tea, and even to the Punch Bowl, there’s scarce a piece in my Shop but must be displaced, and the whole agreeable Architecture disordered; so that I can compare em to nothing but to the Night-Goblins that take a Pleasure to over-turn the Disposition of Plates and Dishes in the Kitchens of your housewifely Maids.  Well, after all this Racket and Clutter, this is too dear, that is their Aversion; another thing is charming, but not wanted:  The Ladies are cured of the Spleen, but I am not a Shilling the better for it.  Lord! what signifies one poor Pot of Tea, considering the Trouble they put me to?  Vapours, Mr. SPECTATOR, are terrible Things; for though I am not possess’d by them my self, I suffer more from em than if I were.  Now I must beg you to admonish all such Day-Goblins to make fewer Visits, or to be less troublesome when they come to ones Shop; and to convince em, that we honest Shop-keepers have something better to do, than to cure Folks of the Vapours gratis.  A young Son of mine, a School-Boy, is my Secretary, so I hope you’ll make Allowances.  I am, SIR, Your constant Reader, and very humble Servant, Rebecca the Distress’d.

  March the 22nd.

T.