This looks, friend , as Nature had
But exercis'd the  Trade:
As if She haply had sat down,
And cut out Cloaths for all the Town;
Then sent them out to ,
To try, what Persons they wou'd fit.
But ev'ry Free and Licenc'd Taylor
Would in this  find a Failure.
Should Whims like these his Head perplex,
How could he work for either Sex?
His Cloaths, as Atomes might prevail,
Might fit a Pismire, or a Whale.
No, no: He views with studious Pleasure
Your Shape, before He takes your Measure.
For real  He made the Boddice,
And not for an  Goddess.
No Error near his Shop-board lurk'd:
He knew the Folks for whom He work'd.
Still to Their Size He aim'd his Skill:
Else, pr'ythee, who wou'd pay his Bill?