g seems to me the better Match.

_In a Window at _Bath_._

_On a Gentleman's saying he had calculated his Son's Nativity, the Boy
being then about nine Days old._

_Lavinia_ brought to Bed, her Husband looks
To know the Bantling's Fortune in his Books.
Wiser he'd been, had he look'd backward rather,
And seen for certain, who had been its Father.

_In the Vaults at _Tunbridge_._

Dung, when scatter'd o'er the Plain,
Causes noble Crops of Grain:
Dung in Gardens too we want,
To cherish ev'ry springing Plant.
Corn and Plants since Dung affords,
We eat as well as sh---- our T----ds.

_Written in the Window of a Lady's Chamber, who on a slight
Indisposition sent for _S. J. S.__

The Doctor more than Illness we should fear;
Sickness precedes, and Death attends his Coach,
Agues to Fevers rise, if he appear,
And Fevers grow to Plagues at his Approach.

_On Miss _Green_._

What gives the pleasant Mead its Grace,
What spreads at Spring Earth's smiling Face,
What jolly Hunters chuse to wear,
Gives Name to her whose Chains I bear.

_On Miss _Partridge_ of _Ely_._

That of the pretty feather'd Race,
Which most doth courtly Tables grace,
And o'er the Mountains bends it Flight,
Or lurks in Fields with Harvest bright;
For whose Destruction Men with Care,
The noblest Canine Breed prepare,
Bestows a Name on that fair Maid
Whose Eyes to Love my Heart betray'd.

_On Miss _Sk----_ at _Tunbridge_._

The _Irish_ have a certain Root,
Our Parsnip's very like unto't,
Which eats with Butter wond'rous well,
And like Potatoes makes a Meal.
Now from this Root there comes a Name,
Which own'd is by the beauteous Dame,
Who sways the Heart of _him_ who rules
A mighty Herd of Knaves and Fools.

_A _Rebus_ written in one of the Windows of a large House near _Epsom_._

The Court of Love's assembled here,
'Tis _Venus_ Queen of Beauty's Sphere,
In all her Charms she stands confest,
And rules supreme the noblest Breast.
Ye Shepherds would ye learn the Name
Of her who spreads so vast a Flame,
Know that 'tis hid from the Prophane;
And that your strictest Search is _Vain_.

_In a Window of the Great Room at _Scarborough_._

What strange Vicissitudes we see
In Pleasure, as in Realms take Place
For nothing here can constant be,
Where springing Joys the old efface.
The Theatre, of Yore the Field
Of Con