The Merry Thought: or the Glass Window and Bog House Miscellany
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Hurlo Thrumbo (pseudonym) >> The Merry Thought: or the Glass Window and Bog House Miscellany
_Angel, at Marlborough. Upon Miss M - - k._
Her Step delivers those her Eyes enslave,
She looks to conquer, but she treads to save.
_From a Window at Kidderminster, Worcestershire._
_A Scrap of a Lady's Life._
When first she wakes, a Sigh or two she fetches,
Then rubs her Eyes,----and Arms and Legs she stretches!
Oh! for a Husband, out she gently cries,
If he were here,----he would not let me rise;
But I must up, for Fear my Love should stay,
And we should be too late at the new Play.
Here, _Jenny_, reach my Slippers, bring the Pot;
Then out she jumps, and down she gives a Squat,
I think I need not tell you what to do,
And then she lets a merry Crack or two.
W. Overb - - ry.
_Bog-House at Ludlow._
Two pitiful Dukes at our Race did appear;
One bespoke him a Girl, the other new Geer,
And both went away without paying I hear,
For the Cheat lov'd his Money, and so did the Peer.
_Underwritten._
You Rogue, Taylor shan't catch me, while your Legs they are cross'd.
Don't cry, my dear Girl, since you have got more than you lost.
_FINIS._
The
MERRY-THOUGHT:
or, the
Glass-Window and Bog-House
MISCELLANY.
Taken from
The Original Manuscripts written in _Diamond_
by Persons of the first Rank and Figure in _Great
Britain_; relating to Love, Matrimony, Drunkenness,
Sobriety, Ranting, Scandal, Politicks, Gaming,
and many other Subjects, _Serious_ and _Comical_.
Faithfully Transcribed from the Drinking-Glasses and
Windows in the several noted _Taverns_, _Inns_, and
other _Publick Places_ in this Nation.
_Published by_ HURLO THRUMBO.
_Gameyorum, Wildum, Gorum,
Gameyorum a Gamy,
Flumarum a Flumarum,
A Rigdum Bollarum
A Rigdum, for a little Gamey._
Bethleham-Wall, Moor-Fields.
PART IV.
_LONDON_:
Printed for J. ROBERTS in _Warwick-Lane_; and Sold by
the Booksellers in Town and Country. [Price 6 _d._]
_N. B._ There being a great Number of these Pieces of Wit and Humour at
most Places of publick Resort in this Kingdom, it is hoped that all, who
are pleased with, or willing to promote this Design, will be so good as
to collect and send them to the Publisher hereof. The Editor does not
care how merry they are, provided they are not obscene.
THE
MERRY-THOUGHT.
PART IV.
To the EDITOR of the Glass-Window, _&c._ Miscellany.
_Mr._ BOG,
Where Wit and Learning (as at present in this our Isle) so much abound,
great Marvel it is to me, That so worthy a Compiler of other Men's
Labours as yourself, should be put to the little mean Shifts of copying
from such _Cacascriptores_, who have from _Hudibras_, _Tom Brown_, and
others of the like Rank, their little Bits and Scraps, basely purloined,
whereby you run a Risque of being deem'd yourself a Plagiary: Nor is it
less unbecoming the Dignity and Fidelity of your Undertaking, to supply
the Want of Application and Diligence, by filling up your lifeless Pages
with Musical Punctations, as vile and unrelishing as ever echo'd from
your own natural Bagpipe. Therefore, that you may the better be enabled
these Indecencies equally to avoid, I send you the following
_Collectanea Nasutula_: If you honour them, I shall honour your next
Performance; if not, _Non cuicunque datum est habere nasum_.
_From a Boghouse near _Lincoln's-Inn-Fields_._
_The_ WISH.
Oh! may our Senate, learn'd and great,
(In order to perpetuate
The tuneful Strains and witty Flights,
Of him that Studies while he sh - - ts)
Decree all Landlords, thro' the Nation,
Shall lay (on Pain of Flagellation)
In some meet Corner of their Dark Hole
A cuspidated Piece of Charcoal;
Or, where the Walls are cas'd with Wainscot,
A Piece of Chalk with equal Pains cut;
That those who labour at both Ends,
To ease themselves, and serve their Friends,
May not, reluctant, go from Sh - - t,
And leave no Relict of their Wit,
For want of necessary Tools
To impart the _Proles_ of their Stools:
Then _Cibber_'s Odes, and _Tindal_'s Sense,
_Caleb_ and _Henley_'s Eloquence,
_Woolston_, and all such learned Sophi's,
Would be cut down in House-of-Office:
_Oxford_ and _Cambridge_ too would join
Their Puns, to make the Boghouse shine
Each learn'd Society would try all
(From lowest Club, to that call'd Royal,)
To furnish something might improve
Religion, Politicks, or Love:
Grand _Keyber_, Gormogons, Free Masons,
And _Heydeger_, with all his gay Sons,
Would find to suit, with Lectures there,
Their Intellectuals to a Hair:
_Bodens_ might pick up Wit from thence, and lay
The _Drama_ of another Modish Play.
So wise a Law would doubtless tend
To prove our Senate, Learning's Friend;
Whilst Trade, and such like fond Chimeras,
Might wait more fit and leisure _AEra's._
_From a Window at the _Dolphin_ Inn in _Southampton_._
The Wedding-Night past, says Sir _John_ to his Mate,
Faith Madam I'm bit (tho' I find it too late)
By your d - - - n'd little Mouth, or else I'm a Whore's Son,
For the Cross underneath's quite out of Proportion.
Good Sir _John_, says my Lady, then under the Rose,
I'm as bad bit as you, by your plaguy long Nose:
You have not by half so much as I wanted,
I've more than you want, yet y'are not contented.
_From the Playhouse Boghouse._
Good Folks, sh - - t and write, and mend honest Bog's Trade,
For when you sh - - t Rhymes, you help him to Bread:
He'el feed on a Jest, that is broke with your Wind,
And fatten on what you here leave behind.
_From A Boghouse at the _White Hart_, Petersfield._
Were this Place to be view'd by a Herald of Note,
He would find a new Charge for the next new-bought Coat,
Which _Guillim_ ne'er thought of, nor one of the Herd,
_Viz._ a Wall erect Argent, _Gutte de T----d._
And as a Reward, for improving the Art,
He should bear on a Fess (if he paints it) a F - - - t.
_Underwritten._
A Pox on your writing, I thought you were sh - - - - g,
My great Gut has giv'n me such Twitches:
Had you scribled much more, I'm a Son of a Whore,
If I should not have don't in my Breeches.
_From the _White Lyon_, _Bristol_._
I'm witty, I'll Write,
I'm valiant, I'll Fight,
And take all that's said in my own Sense:
In Liquor I'm sunk,
And confoundedly drunk,
So there is the Source of this Nonsense.
_From the same Place._
A Wretch, whom Fortune has been pleas'd to rowl
From the Tip-top of her enchanted Bowl,
Sate musing on his Fate, but could not guess,
Nor give a Reason for her Fickleness:
Such Thoughts as these would ne'er his Brain perplex,
Did he but once reflect upon her Sex:
For how could he expect, or hope to see,
In Woman either Truth or Constancy.
_Written on the Wall of one of the Summer-Houses in _Gray's-Inn_ Walks,
under a curious Piece of Drawing._
Come hither, Heralds, view this Coat,
'Twill bear Examination,
'Tis ancient, and derives its Note
From the first Pair's Creation.
The Field is _Luna_, _Mars_ a Pale,
Within an Orle of _Saturn_;
Charg'd with two Pellets at the Tail:
Pray take it for a Pattern.
_Under-written._
I don't see your _Luna_, nor _Saturn_, nor _Mars_,
But I see her ---- plain, and I see his bare A - - se.
_From another Place in the same Walks._
Could fairest dear _Eliza_ know how much I love,
My Story might, at least, her gen'rous Pity move;
Her Pity's all my Hope, nor durst I more implore,
With that I still might live, and still her Charms adore.
_Under-written._
Poor Wretch, alas! I pity Thee with all my heart,
Since that, it seems, alone will cure thy Love-sick Smart:
For he that has not Courage further to implore,
May surely have our Pity, but deserves no more.
_From a _Bog-House_ at the _George-Inn_ in _Whitchurch_._
From costive Stools, and hide-bound Wit,
From Bawdy Rhymes, and Hole besh - - t.
From Walls besmear'd with stinking Ordure,
By Swine who nee'r provide Bumfodder
_Libera Nos_ ----
_Upon a Pillar at the _Royal-Exchange_._
This City is a World that's full of Streets,
And Death's the Market-Place where Mankind meets;
If Life were Merchandize, that Men could buy,
The Rich would only live, the Poor must die.
_In the Window of a _Green-House_ near _Tunbridge_._
Sitting on yon Bank of Grass,
With a blooming buxom Lass;
Warm with Love, and with the Day,
We to cool us went to play.
Soon the _am'rous_ Fever fled,
But left a worse _Fire_ in its Stead.
Alas! that _Love_ should cause such Ills!
As doom to _Diet-Drink_ and _Pills_.
_An Encomium on a _Fart_._
I sing the Praises of a _Fart_.
That I may do't by Rules of _Art_.
I will invoke no _Deity_,
But _Butter'd-Pease_ and _Furmity_;
And think their Help sufficient
To sit and furnish my Intent:
For sure I must not use _high Strains_,
For fear it bluster out in _Grains_.
When _Virgil_'s _Gnat_, and _Ovid_'s _Flea_,
And _Homer_'s _Frogs_ strive for the Day;
There is no Reason in my Mind,
That a brave _Fart_ should come _behind_:
Since that you may it _parallel_,
With any Thing that doth _excel_.
_Musick_ is but a _Fart_ that's sent
From the _Guts_ of an _Instrument_:
The Scholar _farts_; but when he gains
Learning with _cracking_ of his Brains;
And having spent much Pain and Oil,
_Thomas_ and _Dun_ to reconcile,
For to learn the abstracting _Art_,
What does he get by't? Not a _Fart_.
The Soldier makes his Foes to run
With but the _Farting_ of a Gun;
That's if he make the _Bullet whistle_,
Else 'tis no better than a _Fizzle_:
And if withal the Winds do stir-up
Rain, 'tis but a _Fart_ in Syrrup.
They are but _Farts_, the _Words_ we say,
Words are but _Wind_, and so are they.
Applause is but a _Fart_, the crude
_Blast_ of the fickle Multitude.
The Boats that lie the _Thames_ about,
Be but _Farts_ several Docks let out.
Some of our _Projects_ were, I think,
But politick _Farts_, _Foh! how they stink_!
As soon as born, they by-and-by,
_Fart-like_, but only breathe, and die.
_Farts_ are as good as _Land_, for both
We hold _in Tail_, and _let_ them both:
Only the Difference here is, that
_Farts_ are _let_ at a lower _Rate_.
I'll say no more, for this is right,
That for my _Guts_ I cannot write;
Though I should study all my Days,
Rhimes that are worth the Thing I praise:
What I have said, take in good Part,
If not, I do not care a _Fart_.
_Written in Chalk under the _George-Inn_ Sign at _Farnham_._
St. _George_ to save a _Maid_, a _Dragon_ slew,
A gallant Action, grant the Thing be true.
Yet some say there's no _Dragons_.----Nay, tis said,
There's no _St. George_----Pray Heav'n there be a _Maid_.
_In the Window of a fine _Assembly-Room_ on a vast Appearance at its
Opening._
The Novelty this Crowd invites,
'Tis strange, and therefore it delights;
For Folks Things eagerly pursue,
Not that they're good, but that they're new.
Pleasure must vary, or must cease,
We tire of Bliss, grow sick of Ease.
And if the Year we're doom'd to Play,
To Work would be a Holiday.
_Over the Gate of _Redgrave Hall_, on a Visit made by Queen _Elizabeth_
to Sir _Nicholas Bacon_, then Lord Keeper._
When great ELIZA saw at _Redgrave-Hall_,
The Apartments _few_, and those indeed but _small_,
Thus to its _Lord_, bespoke the gracious QUEEN;
Methinks for _you_, this _Mansion_ is too _mean_.
_For me, my Liege_, quoth he, _of old 'twas meet,
But _you_ have made _me_ for my _House--too great.
_Written by Sir _Thomas Moor_._
At last I've found a _Haven_ where,
I'll ride secure from _Hope_ or _Fear_.
Thy Game is, _Fortune_, o'er with me, }
And thou to others now may'st _flee_ }
To cheat them with _Inconstancy_. }
_The Nature of Women: From a _Summer-House_ near _Richmond_._
Fair and foolish, little and loud,
Long and lazy, black and proud;
Fat and merry, lean and sad,
Pale and peevish, red and bad.
_The Nature of Men from the same._
To a Red Man read thy Read;
To a Brown Man break thy Bread;
At a Pale Man draw thy Knife;
From a Black Man keep thy Wife.
_In a Chamber Window in _Queen's College, Cambridge_._
Our _Bodies_ are like _Shoes_, which oft we _cast_,
_Physick_ the _Cobler_ is, and _Death_ the _Last_.
_On a Tomb._
Here, in their last Bed,
The loving _Alice_ rests with her Love _Ned_.
_Underwritten by a _Cambridge_ Schollar._
_Viator siste! ecce miraculum!
Vir & Uxor, hic non litigant._
_Which in _English_ may stand thus._
Behold a Bed, where, without Strife,
There rests a Man, and eke his Wife.
_Tom of _Bedlam_'s Sentiments on Marriage._
One ask'd a Madman, if a Wife he had,
A Wife! quoth he.----No!----I'm not quite so mad.
_In the Vaults belonging to Trinity College, _Cambridge_, there is cut
the Form of a Tobacco-Box, with this Inscription:_
Pandora's Treasure.
_Underneath,_
Tobacco, that outlandish Weed,
It dries the Brain, and spoils the Seed;
It dulls the Spirit, it dims the Sight,
It robs a Woman of her Right.
_An Epitaph on a Wicked Man's Tomb. Written by Doctor _Wild_ the famous
Non-Conformist Minister._
Beneath this Stone there lies a cursed Sinner,
Doom'd to be roasted for the Devil's Dinner.
_In the Vaults at _Chelsea_, and in an hundred other Places._
When the Devil was sick, the Devil a Monk would be,
When the Devil was well, the Devil a Monk was he.
_Sir _Walter Raleigh_ on the Snuff of a Candle the Night before he
died._
Cowards fear to die, but Courage stout,
Rather than live in Snuff, will put it out.
_On Marriage: In a Window at _Tunbridge_._
If 'tis to marry when the Knot is ty'd,
Why then they marry, who at _Tyburn_ ride.
And if that Knot, 'till Death, is loos'd by none,
Why then to marry, and be hang'd's all one.
_In a Window in a Public-House, near _Tunbridge_._
Sing High Ding a Ding,
And Ho Ding a Ding,
I'm finely brought to Bed;
My Lord has stole that troublesome Thing,
That Folks call a Maidenhead.
_Jane Hughs_ eighteen Years of Age.
_A little below it, in the same Window._
Then sing High Ding a Ding,
And Ho Ding a Ding,
You're finely brought to Bed;
For something you've got for that troublesome Thing,
A Cl--p for a Maidenhead.
_By my Lord's Gentleman._
_Written in the first Leaf of _Arbor Vitae_._
Two D - - - s, and a Doctor, 'tis said, wrote this Piece,
Who were modest as Whores, and witty as Geese.
They penn'd it, it seems, to shew their great Parts,
Their Skill in Burlesque, and their Knowledge in Arts
But what say the Town----that 't has fully desected,
That Fools they are all----which had long been suspected.
_At the _Red Lyon_ at _Egham_, and in the Windows at many other Places._
_Cornutus_ call'd his Wife both Whore and Slut,
Quoth she, you'll never leave your Brawling--but--
But, what? quoth he: Quoth she, the Post or Door;
For you have Horns to But, if I'm a Whore.
_In a Window at the Pudding-House in the Road to _Islington_._
The End of all, and in the End
The Praise of all depends:
A Pudding merits double Praise,
Because it hath two Ends.
_Underneath it._
A Pudding hath two Ends; You lye, my Brother,
For it begins at one, and ends at t'other.
_On Marriage. By a Batchelor._
Wedding and Hanging, both the Fates dispatch.
Yet Hanging seems to me the better Match.
_In a Window at _Bath_._
_On a Gentleman's saying he had calculated his Son's Nativity, the Boy
being then about nine Days old._
_Lavinia_ brought to Bed, her Husband looks
To know the Bantling's Fortune in his Books.
Wiser he'd been, had he look'd backward rather,
And seen for certain, who had been its Father.
_In the Vaults at _Tunbridge_._
Dung, when scatter'd o'er the Plain,
Causes noble Crops of Grain:
Dung in Gardens too we want,
To cherish ev'ry springing Plant.
Corn and Plants since Dung affords,
We eat as well as sh---- our T----ds.
_Written in the Window of a Lady's Chamber, who on a slight
Indisposition sent for _S. J. S.__
The Doctor more than Illness we should fear;
Sickness precedes, and Death attends his Coach,
Agues to Fevers rise, if he appear,
And Fevers grow to Plagues at his Approach.
_On Miss _Green_._
What gives the pleasant Mead its Grace,
What spreads at Spring Earth's smiling Face,
What jolly Hunters chuse to wear,
Gives Name to her whose Chains I bear.
_On Miss _Partridge_ of _Ely_._
That of the pretty feather'd Race,
Which most doth courtly Tables grace,
And o'er the Mountains bends it Flight,
Or lurks in Fields with Harvest bright;
For whose Destruction Men with Care,
The noblest Canine Breed prepare,
Bestows a Name on that fair Maid
Whose Eyes to Love my Heart betray'd.
_On Miss _Sk----_ at _Tunbridge_._
The _Irish_ have a certain Root,
Our Parsnip's very like unto't,
Which eats with Butter wond'rous well,
And like Potatoes makes a Meal.
Now from this Root there comes a Name,
Which own'd is by the beauteous Dame,
Who sways the Heart of _him_ who rules
A mighty Herd of Knaves and Fools.
_A _Rebus_ written in one of the Windows of a large House near _Epsom_._
The Court of Love's assembled here,
'Tis _Venus_ Queen of Beauty's Sphere,
In all her Charms she stands confest,
And rules supreme the noblest Breast.
Ye Shepherds would ye learn the Name
Of her who spreads so vast a Flame,
Know that 'tis hid from the Prophane;
And that your strictest Search is _Vain_.
_In a Window of the Great Room at _Scarborough_._
What strange Vicissitudes we see
In Pleasure, as in Realms take Place
For nothing here can constant be,
Where springing Joys the old efface.
The Theatre, of Yore the Field
Of Conquests, gain'd by blooming Maids,
Now must to modern Operas yield,
As they, to courtly Masquerades.
Nor better fares those sweet Retreats
Which they in sultry Summer chose:
Since _Scarb'rough_, Paradise of Sweets!
On ruined _Bath_ and _Tunbridge_ rose.
_Traced with a Smoke of a Candle in _Newgate_._
_Dick_, on two Words, thought to maintain him ever:
The first was _Stand_, and next to _Stand, Deliver_.
But _Dick_'s in _Newgate_, and he fears shall never,
Be blest again with that sweet Word _Deliver_.
_In the Window of a Coffee-House at _Richmond_._
My _Chloe_ is an Angel bright,
But _Chloe_'s common----so is Light.
And who with _Phoebus_ Fault shall find,
Because his Beams to all are kind.
_On a Pannel at the Rose._
_Nanny Meadowes_ has undone me,
From myself her Charms have won me.
With Love's blazing Flames I die,
Whither, whither shall I fly!
_Underneath._
Prithee, Coxcomb, without Whining,
Say thou hast a mind to Sinning
With a Guinea, do but ask her,
Love you'll find----is no hard Task, Sir.
_On a long-winded Preacher at _Coventry_: From a Window there._
Twelve Minutes, and one tedious Hour
_Mills_ kept me once in Pain,
But if I had it my Power,
He ne'er should preach again.
_A _Liliputian_ ODE. Composed at _Tunbridge_._
Charming _Molly_,
Cease your Folly,
Learn to ease me,
No more teaze me.
Love's but Reason
When in Season:
Nay, 'tis Duty,
Youth and Beauty
To improve
In happy Love.
Therefore, _Molly_,
Cease your Folly,
And instead of being coy,
Give, O give your Lover Joy!
_The _Fair Lady's Answer_. In the same Measure._
Rhiming _Billy_,
Soft and silly,
Are the verses,
Muse rehearses,
When with straining
You're obtaining
Her Assistance
'Gainst Resistance,
Made by Mistress
To your Distress.
Therefore early
Quit them fairly,
If you'd be rid of Woe,
Prithee, Prithee, Coxcomb, do.
_The Clowns and the Conjurer. By a Lady._
A Clown, who had lost his Mare,
To his Neighbour, a Wit, did repair,
And begg'd him with him to go
To the famous Doctor _Foreknow_,
A Conjurer powerful and strong,
Who would tell who had done the Wrong.
So when to the Door they came,
The Wit, he besh - - t the same:
Then knocking -- the Doctor appears,
And in Midst of his Passion he swears,
If he knew but the nasty Dog
Who had sh - - t at his Gate like a Rogue,
He'd do to him Lord knows what.
Quoth the Wit -- why know you not that?
Then, Neighbour, e'en save your Pence,
For his Learning is all a Pretence:
If he knows not who sh - t----of course,
He nothing can know of your Horse.
And no Light can his Figures afford,
Whose Conjuring's not worth a T----
So as wise our two Clowns came Home,
As any who on such Errands roam.
_On a Pannel at the Faulcon in _St. Neot_'s _Huntingdonshire_._
My Maidenhead sold for a Guinea,
A lac'd Head with the Money I bought;
In which I look'd so bonny,
The Heart of a Gamester I caught:
A while he was fond, and brought Gold to my Box,
But at last he robb'd me, and left me the P----
_Underneath._
When you balance Accounts, it sure may be said,
You at a bad Market sold your Maidenhead.
_The _Inamorato_. In a Window at _Twickenham_._
When dull and melancholy,
I rove to charming _Dolly_,
Whose Sweetness doth so charm me,
And wanton Tricks so warm me,
That quite dissolv'd in Love,
No Trouble then I prove,
But am as truly blest
Upon her panting Breast,
As if to me she brought
All for which _Caesar_ fought:
For I, like _Anthony_,
With Beauty would be free,
Altho' again't shou'd cost
The Price of Empire lost.
_An _Answer_. In the next Pane._
You sure were full of Folly,
When in the Praise of _Dolly_,
You wrote your am'rous Ditty,
Which sure deserves her Pity,
Since plainly it doth prove,
Your Brain is crack'd with Love;
Who else would talk of giving
An Empire for a ----
When Twenty will down }
Each for a Silver Crown, }
And thank you when they've done }
_In a Window. At _Lebeck's-Head_._
If it be true each Promise is a Debt,
Then _Celia_ hardly will her Freedom get;
Yet she, to satisfy her Debts, desires
To yield her Body as the Law requires.
_In the _Summer-House_ on _Gray's Inn Terras_._
Who speaks to please in ev'ry Way,
And not himself offend,
He may begin to work to Day,
But Heaven knows when he'll end.
_In the same Place._
Dogs on their Masters fawn and leap,
And wag their Tails apace,
So tho' a Flatterer wants a Tail,
His Tongue supplies its Place.
_In a Window of the _Rene-Deer-Inn_ at _Bishop's-Strafford_._
He that loves a Glass without a G,
Leave out L, and that is he.
_Wrote with a Pencil on a Pannel in one of the Courts of Justice in
_Guild-Hall_._
To go to Law
I have no Maw,
Altho' my Suit be sure,
For I may lack
Cloaths to my Back,
E'er I that Suit procure.
_At the Tuns in _Cambridge_. Written with a Pencil on the Wall._
Marriage in Days of old has liken'd been
Unto a publick Feast, or Revel Rout,
Where those who are without would fain get in,
And those who are within would fain get out.
_On two old Maids: Written with a Pencil in the _Pump Room_ at _Bath_._
Why are _Doll_'s Teeth so white, and _Susan_'s black?
The Reason soon is known.
_Doll_ buys her Teeth which she doth lack,
But _Susan_ wears her own.
_In a Window, at the _Rose-Tavern_ in _Catherine-Street_._
_On Mrs. _C---- P----__
So early _Con_ began the wanton Trade,
She scarce remembers when she was a Maid.
_In the Window of a Sharper's Chambers in the _Temple_._
Oft with an Oath has _Cog_ the Gamester said,
That no Disease should make him keep his Bed,
Urg'd for a Reason, I have heard him tell it,
To keep my Word----in Troth I mean to sell it.
_In a Bog-House at _Putney_._
The Poor have _little_, Beggars _none_,
The Rich _too much_, _enough_, not one.
_Written at the Request of a Lady who on her Wedding Day entreated an
old Lover to write something upon her in the Window._
This glittering Diamond, and this worthless Glass,
_Celia_, display thy Virtue and thy Face;
Bright as the Brilliant while thy Beauty shows
Ev'n Glass itself's less brittle than thy Vows.
_The _Italian_ Gout._
If a Man lets a Fart in fair _Italy_,
From Lovers he never is after free;
For why ---- amongst those Dons, 'tis said,
'Tis a certain Sign of a Male Maidenhead.
_In a Window of a certain Lady of Pleasure's Lodgings in _Bow-Street_._
When with _Phillis_ toying,
Eager for enjoying,
What Muse can say
How sweet our Play,
What Numbers tell
The Joys we feel?
Happy Lovers only know
Bliss unmix'd with any Woe.
The Ambitious when rais'd to the Summit of Power,
In the Midst of their Joy fear that Fortune may lower;
The Miser, who Thousands has heap'd in his Chest,
In the Midst of Riches is never at rest.
And the Heroe, whose Bosom his Glory still warms,
In the Midst of his Conquests fears the Change of his Arms.
But the Lover, whose Fondness his Hours doth employ,
In the Midst of her Charms knows no End of his Joy.