e T----d._
And as a Reward, for improving the Art,
He should bear on a Fess (if he paints it) a F - - - t.

_Underwritten._

A Pox on your writing, I thought you were sh - - - - g,
My great Gut has giv'n me such Twitches:
Had you scribled much more, I'm a Son of a Whore,
If I should not have don't in my Breeches.

_From the _White Lyon_, _Bristol_._

I'm witty, I'll Write,
I'm valiant, I'll Fight,
And take all that's said in my own Sense:
In Liquor I'm sunk,
And confoundedly drunk,
So there is the Source of this Nonsense.

_From the same Place._

A Wretch, whom Fortune has been pleas'd to rowl
From the Tip-top of her enchanted Bowl,
Sate musing on his Fate, but could not guess,
Nor give a Reason for her Fickleness:
Such Thoughts as these would ne'er his Brain perplex,
Did he but once reflect upon her Sex:
For how could he expect, or hope to see,
In Woman either Truth or Constancy.

_Written on the Wall of one of the Summer-Houses in _Gray's-Inn_ Walks,
under a curious Piece of Drawing._

Come hither, Heralds, view this Coat,
'Twill bear Examination,
'Tis ancient, and derives its Note
From the first Pair's Creation.
The Field is _Luna_, _Mars_ a Pale,
Within an Orle of _Saturn_;
Charg'd with two Pellets at the Tail:
Pray take it for a Pattern.

_Under-written._

I don't see your _Luna_, nor _Saturn_, nor _Mars_,
But I see her ---- plain, and I see his bare A - - se.

_From another Place in the same Walks._

Could fairest dear _Eliza_ know how much I love,
My Story might, at least, her gen'rous Pity move;
Her Pity's all my Hope, nor durst I more implore,
With that I still might live, and still her Charms adore.

_Under-written._

Poor Wretch, alas! I pity Thee with all my heart,
Since that, it seems, alone will cure thy Love-sick Smart:
For he that has not Courage further to implore,
May surely have our Pity, but deserves no more.

_From a _Bog-House_ at the _George-Inn_ in _Whitchurch_._

From costive Stools, and hide-bound Wit,
From Bawdy Rhymes, and Hole besh - - t.
From Walls besmear'd with stinking Ordure,
By Swine who nee'r provide Bumfodder
_Libera Nos_ ----

_Upon a Pillar at the _Royal-Exchange_._

This City is a World that's full of Streets,
And Death's the Market-Place where Mankind meets;
If Life were Merchandize, that Men could buy,
The Ric