FullReads

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 for you not to wash
(for you don’t wash)
And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew,
With a vast more like That,–and all along of Steem
Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam–
But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good,
And I cant say I’m Sorry afore God if you shoud,
For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways
Without taking ourn,–aye, and Moor to your Prays
You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adam’s milky ways–that’s what you might,
Or bete Carpets–or get into Parleamint,–or drive Crabrolays from morning to night,
Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a poste!
(Which is an od way of sleping, I must say,–and a very hard pillow at most,)
Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m awares,
Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen) and roe peple up and down Hungerford stares,
Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt!
But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!

Yourn with Anymocity,
BRIDGET JONES.