ants 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 anci