f the Four Crosses, on the Road to West
Chester._

Host! wou'd you paint your Crosses to the Life,
Pull down your Sign, and then hang up your Wife.

_On A Window at Canbury-House._

The Breast of ev'ry _British_ Fair,
Like this bright, brittle, slippery Glass,
A Diamond makes Impression there,
Though on the Finger of an Ass.

_On a Person of Quality's Boghouse._

Good Lord! who could think,
That such fine Folks should stink?

_On a Window at Bushy-Hall, Hertfordshire._

Love is like Blindman's Buff, where we pursue,
We know not what we catch, we know not who;
And when we grasp our Wish, what Prize is won?
Our Eyes are open'd, and the Play is done.

_Some Love Verses being first written on a Window in Brook-Street, and
scratched out, occasioned the following:_

Good grave Papa, you hope in vain,
By blotting this to mend her;
She who writes Love upon the Pane,
Will soon leap out at Window.

_On the Middle Temple Boghouse._

Well sung of Yore, a Bard of Wit,
That some Folks read, but all Folks sh - - - t;
But now the Case is alter'd quite,
Since all who come to Boghouse write.

_On the same Place._

Because they cannot eat, some Authors write;
And some, it seems, because they cannot sh - - te.

_On a Glass at the Devil Tavern, Temple-Bar._

The stubborn Glass no Character receives,
Except the Stamp the piercing Brilliant gives.
A female Heart thus no Impression takes,
But what the Lover tipp'd with Diamond makes.

_At Launder's Coffee-House, in the Old Play-House Passage._

Dear _Pat_, 'tis vain to patch or paint,
Since still a fragrant Breath you want;
For though well furnish'd, yet all Folks
Despise a Room whose Chimney smokes.

_White-Hart at Watford._

Parody of four Lines of _Dryden_.

Glass with a Diamond does our Wit betray;
Who can write sure on that smooth slippery Way?
Pleas'd with our scribling we cut swiftly on,
And see the Nonsense, which we cannot shun.

_In a Window at the Kings-Arms Tavern, Fleet-Street._

Both mine and Women's Fate you'll judge from hence ill,
That we are pierc'd by ev'ry Coxcomb's Pencil.

_Written in a Window at a private House, by a desponding Lover in the
Presence of his Mistress._

This Glass, my Fair's the Emblem of your Mind,
Which brittle, slipp'ry, pois'nous oft we find.

_Her Answer underneath._

I must confess, kind Sir,