When I lay with my bouncing _Nell_, I gave her an Inch, and she took an Ell: But I think in this Case it was damnable hard, When I gave her an Inch, she’d want more than a Yard. _Hampstead, at the Flask._ Nothing so certain as the Uncertainties of this Life, _says one of the Greek Philosophers_. _Hoxton, on a Wall._ What Difference between Kings T - - - ds and mine? One may be costive, one be full of Slime; Yet equally will any Hog that feeds, Produce good Pork by feeding on our Needs. _Underwritten._ You nasty Dog, you may eat your Pork yourself. _Hampstead, at the Flask._ Tell me why, ye gen’rous Swains? Tell me, ye Nymphs upon the Plains? Why does _Sylvia_ leave the Green? Has she done any Thing obscene? They all reply’d, Your _Sylvia_’s gone; For she will do’t with ev’ry one. _From the Red Lyon at Egham._ She that thinks upon her Honour, Needs no other Guard upon her. _Underwritten._ She that has a Man upon her, Never thinks upon her Honour. _In Trinity College Boghouse, Dublin._ You who instead of Fodder, Fingers use, Pray lick ’em clean, and don’t this Wall abuse. _Under which is written;_ These House-of-Office Poets, by the L - - - d, Instead of Laurel, should be crown’d with T - - - d. _In a Window, at the Sign of 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._