Classic Poem

These London Wenches are so stout,
They care not what they do;
They will not let you have a Bout,
Without a Crown or two.

They double their Chops, and Curl their Locks,
Their Breaths perfume they do;
Their tails are pepper'd with the Pox,
And that you're welcome to.

But give me the Buxom Country Lass,
Hot piping from the Cow;
That will take a touch upon the Grass,
Ay, marry, and thank you too.

Her Colour's as fresh as a Rose in June
Her Temper as kind as a Dove;
She'll please the Swain with a wholesome Tune,
And freely give her Love.