Sunday Morning Medicine

A weekly check-up of gender, medicine, and history in the news

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David Harley

No songs about the monthly flowers come to mind, but I was remnded of a favourite song of the 17th/18th centuries. Sung in the person of “a tender young maid,” it concerns a parade of suitors, more less seemly than others, but all rejected. Some are cut down with blatant innuendo.

A fine dapper taylor, with a yard in his hand
Did profer his service to be at command
He talk’d of a slit I had above knee,
But I’ll have no taylors to stitch it for me.

My thing is my own, and I’ll keep it so still
Yet other young lasses may do as they will.

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