d be fined and the substance escape?"

A song in ridicule of a famous musician, who was caught serenading his
mistress with his bass-viol on a very frosty night:--

Look down, fair garreteer bestow
One glance upon your swain,
Who stands below in frost and snow.
And shaking sings in pain.

Thaw with your eyes the frozen street,
Or cool my hot desire,
I burn within, altho' my feet
Are numbed for want of fire.
_Chorus_.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Come, come, come, come,
My dearest be not coy,
For if you are (zit, zan, zounds) I
Must without your favour die.

The sentiment in the following is easily appreciated, but is there not
also some slight essence of humour?

ON FLOWERS IN A LADY'S BOSOM.

Behold the promised land, where pleasures flow!
See how the milk-white hills do gently rise,
And beat the silken skies!
Behold the valley spread with flowers below!
The happy flowers, how they allure my sense!
The fairer soil gives them the nobler hue
Her breath perfumes them too:
Rooted i' th' heart they seem to spring from thence,
Tell, tell me why, thou fruitful virgin breast,
Why should so good a soil lie unpossest?

Brown's humour partook of the coarseness of most of the writers of his
times, and scandalized the more religious and decent muse of Sir Richard
Blackmore, who endeavoured to correct this general failing in his
"Satire upon Wit." This called forth many sarcastic replies, and
critiques on Blackmore's works; such as Brown's "Epigram occasioned by
the news that Sir R----d B----e's paraphrase upon Job was in the
Press--"

"When Job contending with the devil I saw
It did my wonder, not my pity draw;
For I concluded that without some trick,
A saint at any time could match old Nick.
Next came a fiercer fiend upon his back,
I mean his spouse, stunning him with her clack,
But still I could not pity him, as knowing
A crab tree cudgel soon would send her going.
But when the quack engaged with Job I spy'd,
The Lord have mercy on poor Job I cry'd.
What spouse and Satan did attempt in vain
The quack will compass with his murdering pen,
And on a dunghill leave poor Job again,
With impious doggrel he'll pollute his theme,
And make the saint against his will blaspheme."

Upon the knighting of Sir R----d B----e.

"Be not puffed up with knighthood, friend of mine,