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.

Then quit Hopes of rising, And Riches despising, Leave the Camp and the Court For Love's pleasing Sport; By Experience you'll know, } Love's Pleasure's still flow, } Un-embitter'd with Care, and untinctur'd with Woe. }

_In a Window at _Parson's-Green_._

_The Lover's Retreat._

From meaner Pleasure I retire, Yet real Happiness pursue; Friendship and Love my Breast inspire, And I have met them both in you,

Whatever in my Wish had Place, In thee, my lovely Fair, I find; All that's beauteous in thy Face, And all that's virtuous in thy Mind.

_Written by Mr. ---- in _Chloe_'s Bed-Chamber._

Wou'd you know the true Road that to Pleasure doth lead, Then this Way, ye Swains, your Footsteps must tread. And then for the Piece which this Pleasure doth cost, Why, 'tis only a Guinea, you can't think it lost. Since Supper and Lodging, and Mistress and all, Nay, and Maid, if you like her, are ready at Call.

_The _Thief_ and the _Doctor_._

A Thief a Parson stopp'd on the Highway, And having bid him stand, next bid him pay. The Parson drew his sword, for well he durst, And quickly put his Foe unto the Worst. Sir, (quoth the Thief) I by your Habit see, You are a Churchman, and Debate should flee, You know 'tis written in the sacred Word, _Jesus_ to _Peter_ said, _Put up thy Sword_: True, (quoth the Parson) but withal then hear, St. _Peter_ first had cut off _Malchus_'s Ear.

__Pasquin_ against _P. S. Quintus_, when he forbid the Bawdy-Houses at _Rome_, in Queen _Elizabeth_'s Time._

_Lex prohibet Pueros, prohibet Lupanaria Sixtus;_ _Ergo quid agendum? Sit tibi amica manus._

_The Cure of Love._

Love is, as some Physicians say, A Fever bred by too high Feeding: To cure it then the speediest Way, Would be by Purging, and by Bleeding.

_Written in the Window of the Bar of the _White-Swan-Tavern_ of the City of _Norwich_._

Mcccmixixx.

---- ---- ---- _firmissima vina,_ ---- ---- ---- _reponite mensis,_ ---- ---- ---- _& pocula porgite dextris._

_In the Bog-House of the same Tavern._

Six Pennyworth of Whiting, } A Hole to let Light in, } Will make it fit to sh - - te in. }

_Underneath._

By what's above, I welly ween, The Fool wants Light to sh - t him clean.

_In a Bog-House in _St. Michael_'s Parish in _Norwich_._

_Tim Kirby_, _Peter Harrod_, and _Will Hall_, Are three fit Pieces for a Bog-House Wall.

_Underneath. By another._

But _Old Nick_ has got them all.

_Written in a Bog-House at _Ipswich_._

_Si desit stramen, cum digito terge Feramen._

_In _English_. By another._

If you cannot get some Grass, With your Finger wipe your A - - se

_And under that, by another._

Such wretched _Latin_, and such wretched Verse, Are proper _Stremina_ to clean my A - - se.

_In a Window at _Mount Ephraim_, near _Tunbridge_:_

_A Dialogue between a Lover and a Poet._

_Lov._ What is bright _Celia_ like, Dear Poet, say? _Poet._ Why _Celia_, Sir, is like a Summer's Day. _Lov._ Who to a Day could liken such a Woman? _Poet._ Is she not very _fair_, and very _common_?

_Written with a Pencil in the Vault at _Chelsea College_._

Who scribbles on the Wall when he's at sh - -, May sure be said to have a Flux of Wit.

_In the Vaults at _Tunbridge_._

Like Claret-Drinkers Stools, a Blockhead's Brain; Hardly conceives what it brings forth with Pain. Such is my Case----who, while I'm thus inditing, Prove the Analogy 'twixt it and Sh------.

_Written on the Window of a Coffee-House._

_Underneath, Coffee, Tea,_ &c.

The Mistress by her Window's represented, For why, 'tis brittle Ware, and painted.

_On a Butcher's marrying a Tanner's Daughter at _Reading_._

A fitter Match there never could have been, Since here the _Flesh_ is wedded to the _Skin_.

_At _Tunbridge_._

_Chloe_ is fair as _Fields_ in Autumn seen, Her Temper gentle as the purling _Stream_: That's true; but then with those the rest conspire, Lighter she is than _Air_, and hot as _Fire_.

_In Mrs. _Cowser_'s Window; in _Russel-Street_, _Covent-Garden_._

Love, 'tis said, his Arrows shooting, Wounds is ever distributing; But before I felt, I knew not, That in Poison dipp'd they flew hot.

To _Jenny_ I owe That this Secret I know, For her I felt Smart At first in my Heart;

Which quickly she cur'd: But alack and alas! I now feel a Throbbing in a much lower Place. To _Jenny_ I went; but, alas! it was in vain: Though she gave me the Wound, she can't cure me again.

_An Epitaph on an old Maid._

Beneath this Place there lies an ancient Maid, Whose secret Parts no Man did e'er invade; Scarce her own Finger she'd permit to touch That Virgin Part, altho' it itched much. And in her last expiring dying Groans, Desir'd no Tomb, if it was built with Stones.

_The Effects of Love._

Love is the sweetest softest Passion, That can warm the human Soul; 'Tis a gentle Inclination Which doth ev'ry Care controul:

Thro' our Bosom Love diffusing, Tender Thoughts is ever choosing; Softest Words its Flame expressing, Towards the Dame our Heart possessing.

Love still gentle makes and easy, Soft in ev'ry Thing we do; Bent on all Things that may please ye, Men are Angels when they Woo.

_This was wrote somewhere; and means something, if you can find it out._

A Beauty like her's whose Charms I now sing, Ne'er sparkled in vain in the Box or the Ring; No Youth of Distinction who gaz'd on her Eyes, E'er retir'd, but he left her his Heart as her Prize. Vain are all their Endeavours, for still the coy Maid, At the Mention of Marriage, look'd strangely afraid, Nor e'er thought of yeilding----until not long since Eluding dull Ties----she was join'd to a P----

_FINIS._

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_From Nothing comes Nothing, and there remains Nothing._

From a Copy-Book in the _Blue-Coat_ Hospital.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Errata:

The List of Editors was despeckled in scanning. All periods (full stops) were supplied by the transcriber.

Editor's Introduction:

By Swine who nee'r provide Bumfodder _spelling unchanged (taken from primary text)_

Primary Text:

Title Page: All title pages-- including Part 1, issued as a separate ARS publication-- are essentially identical. --The last part of the second paragraph (after "... Nation.") varies. --The name "Bethleham-Wall" is spelled "Bethlehem" in Part 3.