Go you false and faithless Fair, Gods above forbid my Fate, First me Joys you do prepare, Then you Sorrows do create; For 'tis the Nature of your Sex, First to pleasure, then perplex, Happy's he without your Smiles. Ever-blest he lives content; In exorbitant Exiles, Never can his Fate repent; All his Wishes and Desires, To destroy Love's burning Fires. _R. C. June_ 14. 1731. _At the Crown at Epping._ Tom. Rudge _won the Hat from_ George Redman. _April_ 17. 1714. He lifted with such Might and Strength, As would have hurl'd him twice his Length, And dash'd his Brains (if any) out: But _Mars_ that still protects the stout, In Pudding-Time came to his Aid. Well done _Tom_; and _George_ was a clever Fellow too. _C. H._ 1714. _Sent to the Compiler from a Drinking-Glass at Pontack's-Head Tavern in Fleet-Street._ Might all my Wishes but propitious prove, And all my Wants supply'd by mighty _Jove_; Give me dear _W----rs_, and I'll ask no more, But think her dearer than the golden Shower. _C. M._ _Sent to the Compiler from the same._ _From the Bog-House at Pancras-Wells._ Hither I came in haste to sh-t, But found such Excrements 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._