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!

  Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself,
And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe And pull off Your Pattins,—­and leave the washing to we That nose what’s what—­Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day—­ When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their aint nun at all, And Cristmass cum—­and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his
      Harm-Chare—­
Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent