The Cook, confound her, boil’d no Roots; The Hostler never clean’d my Boots; The Tapster too, would hardly stir; The Drawer was a lazy Cur; The Chamberlain had made no Bed; The Host had Maggots in his Head: But _Millicent_, who kept the Bar, } Was worse than all the rest by far; } She was as many others are. } I kiss’d her till she had her Fill, I thought it Love, and with her Will. } But then ---- ---- ---- } She made a da----n’d confounded Bill. } Captain R. T. 1718. _Underwritten._ See the Bill Gentlemen. Thrice was I reckon’d for my Meat; Thrice was I reckon’d for Miss _Milly_’s treat; Thrice was I reckon’d for my dirty Boots; Thrice was I reckon’d for not having Roots; Thrice was I reckon’d by the lazy Fellows; And thrice I swore, I wish’d them at the Gallows; And if I come here any more, Then call me a Son of a Whore. R. T. 1718. _Rue D’Auphine, at Paris._ O Quelle Grand Traison! Les Couillions que je porte Lors que leur Maître est en prison Ces Gallans d’ausant a la porte. N. B. _This is not render’d into _English_, but ’tis Ingratitude enough for two Servants, that have been well entertained a long while by their Master, should dance about a Prison Door, while their Master is in it._ _On a Window at the Ram, Newmarket._ Come hither, dearest, sweetest Turtle-Dove; You are my Goddess.--You alone I love. At Night, whene’er I close my Eyes to Rest, I dream of laying in your snow-white Breast. But oft oppress’d with Grief and pensive Care, I to enjoy such Happiness despair. O wretched me! Celestial Pow’rs above! O mighty Jove! what must I die for Love! If you’re inclin’d to cure the Wound you gave, Come quick, relieve, and save me from the Grave. _Her Answer._ Unhappy Youth, pray trouble not your Mind, By mighty _Jove_, I swear I will be kind. I swear by _Venus_, and the Pow’rs above; } By _Cupid_’s Darts, and all the Joys of Love, } To thee my Youth, my Swain, I’ll ever constant prove. } _Bog-House at Epsom-Wells._ Privies are now Receptacles of Wit, } And every Fool that hither comes to sh----t, } Affects to write what other Fools have writ. } _Rain-Deer, Bishop-Stafford._ Hail charming Maid! hail my enchanting Fair, Thy Beauty’s such, what Mortal can forbear? Have Pity on a Youth’s despairing Cries, Compassion shew, or else your Lover dies. O that I but one good Enjoyment had! Grant it me soon, or else I shall go mad. _Her Answer._ Alas! poor Youth, if you go mad for Love, Seek your Relief from mighty _Jove_ above. No Cure I have, my Body’s chaste and pure; A wandering Youth I never can endure. _Pancras-Wells._ I have had a Cl - p, By a sad Mishap; But the Doctor has cur’d it, And I’ve endur’d it. The B - ch that gave it me, She is gone over Sea. G - d d - n her A - se, That fir’d my T - se. _Peacock, Northampton._