to thy loving Hand.

If thou dost love, my Kindness shall incite thee,

To bind our Loves up in a holy Band.

Anne Oph---lia, 1708.

Salisbury, at the King's-Arms; seemingly to give the Reason why Miles seem shorter in one Place than another.

 

When I set out from London, I tramp'd on the Way,

I was brisk, and my Courage and Heart was full gay;

So I fancy'd my Journey was nothing but Play,

 

But as I went forward, a Day or two longer,

The Miles seem'd more lengthen'd as I grew less stronger,

And I wish'd in this Case to grow younger and younger.

S. O. Oct. 17. 1717.

I walk'd all the Way between London and Exeter.

At the Crown at Harlow.

When Daizies gay, and Violets blue,

And Cowslips with their yellow Hue,

And Lady's Smocks of Silver white,

Paint all the Meadows with Delight,

Then shall I meet my charming Fair,

On ouzy Banks to take the Air;

There shall we taste delicious Love,

Equal to what is known Above.

R. T. April 14. 1716.

Upon a Window at the Old Crown at Ware in Hertfordshire; supposed to be wrote by a slighted Lover.

Go you false and faithless Fair,

Gods above forbid my Fate,

First me Joys you do prepare,

Then you Sorrows do create;

For 'tis the Nature of your Sex,

First to pleasure, then perplex,

Happy's he without your Smiles.

Ever-blest he lives content;

In exorbitant Exiles,

Never can his Fate repent;

All his Wishes and Desires,

To destroy Love's burning Fires.

R. C. June 14. 1731.

At the Crown at Epping.

Tom. Rudge won the Hat from George Redman.

April 17. 1714.

He lifted with such Might and Strength,

As would have hurl'd him twice his Length,

And dash'd his Brains (if any) out:

But Mars that still protects the stout,

In Pudding-Time came to his Aid.

Well done Tom; and George was a clever Fellow too. C. H. 1714.

Sent to the Compiler from a Drinking-Glass at Pontack's-Head Tavern in Fleet-Street.

Might all my Wishes but propitious prove,

And all my Wants supply'd by mighty Jove;

Give me dear W———rs, and I'll ask no more,

But think her dearer than the golden Shower.

C. M.

Sent to the Compiler from the same.

From the Bog-House at Pancras-Wells.

Hither I came in haste to sh-t,

But found such Excrements of Wit,

That I to shew my Skill in Verse,

Had scarcely Time to wipe my A--se.

Underwritten.

D——n your Writing,

Mind your Sh-t-ng.

On a Wainscoat, at the Crown at Harlow.

Whilst Lady Mary slept at Ease,

Secure from Jealousy and Fleas,

Her Lord with vig'rous Love inclin'd,

To kiss her Maid, and ease his Mind:

The Maiden did not long resist,

But gently yielded to be kist;

And in the Dance of Lovers move,

With sprightly Bounds to shew her Love.

When in the Height of am'rous Fire,

She cry'd, my Lord, I've one Desire,

Tell me, my Peer, tell me, my Lord,

Tell me, my Life, upon your Word,

Who does it best, my Dame or me?

And then she fell in Extasy.

My Lord in Fire of his Love,

Call'd her his Minion, Turtle Dove;

You have the only Art to please,

All this he swore upon his Knees:

Your Dame is like a Log of Wood,

Her Love is never half so good.

My Lord, says she, all that I know;

For all the World has told me so.

S———d———rs, April, 1717.

In a Barber's Shop.

Will. —— —— always fights with his Cunning,

Whilst one Foot stands still, th'other is running.

At the Sugar-Loaf in Bell-Yard, Temple-Bar.

If Venus, or if Bacchus, be my Boast,

Claret's my Liquor, and Miss C—— my Toast,

Upon all the Windows of Note on the Roads.

If one Stone splits the most obdurate Glass,

Why needs there two to split a pretty L--ss.

Underwritten.

Thou Fool, I say, you never yet did know,

A L--ss was split without the Use of two.

R. F.

Underwritten.

Nor that neither.

M. L.

From a Bog-House at Hampstead.

Hard Stools proceed from costive Claret;

Yet mortal Man cannot forbear it.

So Childbed-Women, full of Pain,

Will grunt and groan, and to't again.

At Hampstead, in a Window.

Gammer Sprigins had gotten a Maidenhead,

And for a Gold Guinea she brought it to Bed;

But I found by embracing that I was undone;

'Twas a d---n'd p-ck-y Wh--re, just come from London.

R. L. 1710.

A strange Thing written upon a Glass Window in Queen Elizabeth's Time.

I, C, S, X, O, Q, P, U.

This must be left to the Decypherers.

Pancras Bog-House.

If Smell of T——d makes Wit to flow,

Laud! what would eating of it do.

From the Temple Bog-House.

If you design to sh--te at Ease,

Pray rest your Hands upon your Knees.

And only give a gentle squeeze.

 

F I N I S.

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N.B. A Third Part of this Work being in the Press, we intreat our kind Correspondents would be speedy in sending their Letters to J. Roberts.