The Drawer, _Tom_, has scarce forgot, Since I was here last _Easter_; I broke his Head with the Pewter Pot, And gave him not a Teaster. But why, d’ye think, I serv’d him so? What Flesh alive could bear it? I’d call’d a dozen Times, I trow, Yet the Dog would bring no Claret. This Discipline was not in vain, For h’as his Manners mended; I’ve been here twenty Times since then, And always well attended. _From a Window in Carlisle, the Sign forgot._ How says the Proverb, can it e’er be thought, What’s bred i’th’ Bone can out o’the Flesh be brought: Her Mother kiss’d with every one, and _Moll_ does plainly shew her; For _Molly_ kind is kiss’d by none, but only all that know her. I. S. 1718. _From another Pane in the same Place._ As dear _N----y B----k_ look’d into the Street, From this Window where now I am musing, I poop’d her behind, but no Body see’t, And she prov’d ne’er the worse for my using. T. B. _Underwritten._ Ungrateful Wretch, thou’rt scarcely fit to live, Much less such Favours worthy to receive. A greater Curse than leading Apes in Hell, The Fool deserves, that dares to kiss and tell. _On the next Pane._ Dear Madam, pray dont let your Anger abound, For Faith what you’ve wrote has no Charm in’t; You often have try’d me, and know I am sound, Then prithee now where was the Harm in’t? You did me a favour, I did you one too, And, if I’m not mistaken, a greater; I’ll swear I can’t love the Sport better than you, So pray say no more of the Matter. _In a Bog-House, at the Bush at Carlisle_, 1718. Reader, Within this Place two Ways I’ve been delighted; For here I’ve s----, and likewise here have sh----d. They both are healthful, Nature’s Ease require ’em And though you grin, I fancy you desire ’em. _Underwritten._ What Beast alive, could bear to s---- In such a filthy Hole as this is; The nauseous Stink, might, one would think, Disturb his Taste for amorous Kisses. _Underwritten._ This was wrote by some Beau, the Fop you may know, His squeamish Exception would make one believe it; Though the Smell where we sh----t, is not grateful a Bit, Yet I ne’er knew a C----y that favour’d of Civet. _Oxon, on a Window._ Knowledge, thou Darling of the Soul, Be thou my Help-Mate o’er a flowing Bowl; Then will my Time slide easily along, And ev’ry gen’rous Mortal grace our Song. _Underwritten._ D----n your Knowledge, says Captain _Blunt_, swear, drink, and smoke, and you’re an honest Fellow. _Feb._ 13, 1720. _At the Devices, Wiltshire._ _Peggy_ came in with a smiling Face, And every Feature had its Grace: Her Cheeks were blooming, as I’d wish to see; } Her something else above her Knee, } Fill’d all my Mind with Extasy; } And so we went to’t. L. T. _Bath, on Harrison’s Windows._