is not all we have to do:
We oft change Work for Work as well as you.
Our Mistress of her Pewter doth complain,
And 'tis our part to make it clean again.
This Work, tho very hard and tiresome too,
Is not the worst we hapless Females do:
When Night comes on, and we quite weary are,
We scarce can count what falls unto our Share;
Pots, Kettles, Sauce-pans, Skillets, we may see,
Skimmers, and Ladles, and such Trumpery,
Brought in to make compleat our Slavery.
Tho' early in the Morning 'tis begun,
'Tis often very late before we've done;
Alas! our Labours never know no End,
On Brass and Iron we our Strength must spend;
Our tender Hands and Fingers scratch and tear:
All this, and more, with Patience we must bear,
Colour'd with Dirt and Filth we now appear;
Your threshing  will not come near.
All the Perfections Woman once could boast,
Are quite obscur'd, and altogether lost.