_At Epsom on a Window._

When my brisk La.s.s Upon the Gra.s.s, Will sport, and _Give_ her Love; She'll wink and pink, Till she can't think; That's Happiness, by _Jove!_

_Per Jovem Juro._ J. M.

_The following is in a _Caberet_ Window at _Paris_, to be read forwards and backwards the same._

Roma tibi subito motibus ibit amor.

_Underwritten._

Le Diable t'emporte.

_The Three Last Words, the Criticks tell us, spells in English, _The Devil take you_._

_At the same Place._

_Chagrin come le Diable:_ For a Girl has spoil't my _Bauble_.

_A Heathen Greek Line from a Wall at Westminster._

_Souldramaton, Acapon, Alphagoose, Pastiveneson._

_In English._

Shoulder of Mutton, a Capon, half a Goose, Pasty of Venison.

_In Dog-Latin at the same Place._

_O mirum Fartum, Perigrinum Gooseberrytartum._

_N.B._ _Fartum_ is the only _Latin_ Word for Pudding: And as far as I can trace it amongst the Antients, there is no _Latin_ for a Gooseberry-Tart; so that the Lad who writ it, had no need to Apologize for making a Word or two: As for _Fartum_, 'tis allow'd in our Times; for we say _Fartum pistum_, is a _baked Pudding_; and _Fartum coctum_ is a _boiled Pudding_: And if the Boy loved these Things, what is it to us; let every one mind his own Business.

_Brentford at the Red-Lion, the Great Room._

Says Sir _John_ to my Lady, as together they sat, Shall we first go to Supper, or do you know what?

Dear Sir _John_, (with a Smile,) return'd the good Lady, Let us do you know what, for Supper's not ready.

_Bridgnorth, at the Crown._

_Jenny_ had got a Cl - p, Which was my Mishap: But Doctor _R----_ set me right, And I'm now in good Plight.

January 30. 1720. J. W.

_At the Swan at Chelsea, in one of the Summer-Houses; supposed to be written by One who lost his Estate in the South-Sea Year._

d.a.m.n the Joke Of all the Folk: I've lost my Estate; And all Men I hate: I shall look through a Grate, For I see 'tis my Fate.

The Devil take the Bubbles, I'm in a Pack of Troubles,

S. B. 1721.

_Under this is wrote,_

Happy's the Man That well could scan, Which way his Fortune led him: I have got what he lost, I am gay while he's cross'd, So adieu to good Mr. _B----n_.

Ha! ha! ha! 1722.

_Upon a Clock in Tavistock-Street, Covent-Garden, 1712._

I have no Legs, And yet I go and stand: And when I stand, I lie; Witness my Hand;

_Mentiri non est meum._

_From a Window at Spring-Gardens, Vaux-Hall._

Exil'd from _London_, happy could I live, Were this my Paradise, and this my _Eve_.

_At the Cardinal's-Cap at Windsor._

_Michael Hunt's Health._

Here's a Health to _Mich. Hunt_, And to _Mich. Hunt_'s Breeches; And why may not I scratch _Mich. Hunt_, When _Mich. Hunt_ itches.

The Clock goes as swift as the Hours that fly, When together in Bed are my _Chloe_ and I: But when she is gone, I bemoan my hard Fate, It is Millions of Years till she knocks at my Gate.

_Underwritten._

D--n the Clock for its Inconstancy; to give me Moments and Ages in the same Time! O my _Chloe_!

R. W. 1720.

_From a Window in Chancery-Lane._

Here did I lay my _Celia_ down; I got the P - x, and she got half a Crown.

W. T. 1719.