Humorous Letter to Master Moody, the Razor-Setter

Good Master Moody,
My beard being cloudy,
My cheeks, chin, and lips
Like moon i’ the ’clipse,
For want of a wipe:
I’ve sent you a razor,
If you’ll be at leisure
To grind her, and set her,
And make her cut better,
You’ll e’en light my pipe.

Dear sir, you know little
The case of poor Whittle--
I’m courting Tantivie,
If you will believe me,
Pray mark what I say:
I’m frank in my proffers,
And when I make offers,
To kiss the sweet creature,
My lips cannot meet her.
My beard stops the way.

You’ve heard my condition,
And now I petition,
That without omission,
With all expedition,
You’ll give it a strike;
And send it by ’Tony,
He’ll pay you the money--
I’ll shave and look bonny,
And go to my honey,
As snod as you like.

If you do not you’ll hip me,
My sweetheart will slip me,
And if I should smart for’t,
And break my poor heart for’t
Are you not to blame!
But if you’ll oblige me,
As gratitude guides me,
I’ll still be your servant,
Obedient and fervent,
Whilst WHITTLE’S my name.