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._

Damn 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