The Epistle of Robin the Butler

to Kitty the Cook's Daughter

My dear Kitty,

You’re so pretty,

So bewitching,

In the kitchen,

Or when stitching;

So endearing,

When you’re clearing;

And so neat,

When you wait,

At the tea,

So brisk, so gay.

All your beauties,

In your duties

Do so take me,

That they make me

Send this greeting

To my sweeting,

’Till our meeting:

Hoping Kitty

Wil have pitty

On the pain

I sustain.

With a sciver

From love’s quiver

I am spitted,

Ready fitted

To expire

At Cupid’s fire.

O! the grace,

Of your face;

And your eye

By which I fry;

And your lips,

Sweet as sips

Of your whips;

And your breast,

White as paste,

Just a budding

Like bag-pudding,

So excelling

Sweet and swelling;

And your waste

So decreas’d,

Like pyramed

Upon its head,

Turn’d upside down

By country clown.

But, alas!

Must I pass

All that lies

In disguise,

Made more provoking

By your cooking?

But least my Deary

Should grow weary,

Or think me rude;

I must conclude.

Then haste to make

Our wedding cake.

For know, my Love,

If you should prove

Unkind or cruel,

Nor broth nor gruel,

Can from the grave

Preserve your slave.

[Grub-street Journal, 5 August 1731]