Poor Prude! in vain thou play'st the rake,
With borrow'd hair, and tatter'd lace;
Nature, who gave thee such a face,
Ne'er meant thou shou'd'st one conquest make.

Like thee, the noxious tulip blows,
In all its gaudy colours drest;
But who wou'd place it near his breast,
That e'er has seen a blushing rose?

Why leer, and frighten half the town?
Since mankind beauty can discern,
Do, Dowdy, stay at home, and learn
To wash thy apron, cap, and gown!

But if coquette thou still wilt be,
Know, with such features, form, and skin,
Decrepid, dirty, dull, and thin,
He must be blind who fancies thee!