ts 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.