_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 Wh.o.r.e, 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 s.e.x: 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 b.u.mfodder _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 Gra.s.s, With a blooming buxom La.s.s; 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 _b.u.t.ter'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 bl.u.s.ter 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 Mult.i.tude.

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 _a.s.sembly-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_. }