Whene’er a Man has gain’d his Ends, He is encompass’d by his Friends; But when that Man has lost his All, And wants his Friends, he’as none at all. In gay Prosperity we see, } That ev’ry one will bend the Knee, } And treat you with their Flattery; } But in a contrary State, } When Gaiety’s destroy’d by Fate, } The Man they lov’d before, } ---------------- They hate. } _In a Bog-House over the Water, at the Spread-Eagle in Bunny in Nottinghamshire._ The nicest Maid, with the whitest Rump, May sit and sh----te, and hear it plump. _On a Glass Window in the same Place._ For what did _Venus_ love _Adonis_, But for the Gristle, where no Bone is? _In a Bog-House at the Nag’s-Head in Bradmere._ The greatest Monarch, when a fighting, Looks not so great as I, when sh----ting. _In the same Place._ Such Places as these, Were made for the Ease Of every Fellow in common; But a Person who writes On the Wall as he sh----tes, Has a Pleasure far greater than Woman. For he’s eas’d in his Body, and pleas’d in his Mind, When he leaves both a T----d and some Verses behind. _Underwritten._ You are eas’d in your Body, and pleas’d in your Mind, That you leave both a T----d and some Verses behind; But to me, which is worst, I can’t tell, on my Word, The reading your Verses, or smelling your T----d. _From a Church Door._ _On an Eminent Physician’s being called out of Church._ Whilst holy Prayers to Heaven were made, One soon was heard, and answer’d too, _Save us from sudden Death_, was said, And strait from Church Sir _H----_ withdrew. _From the Four Swans at Uxbridge._ There’s none but the Vicious, or the Base, That false Reports can trouble or disgrace: The virtuous Man must ever stand secure ’Gainst all the Lies which Falsehood can procure: For a sound Mind or Conscience gives a Peace, Which to Eternity can never cease. _E. K._ _Underwritten._ D----n your conscientious Rascals; there’s so few of them in this Age, that a Man appears singular who is govern’d thereby. Capt. _T. R._ 1730. _Rumford, on a Window._ How shall the Man e’er turn to dust Who daily wets his Clay. _Underwritten._ In Dust he may fly } As Fools gallop by, } And no body can say Nay. } _The galloping Song, from Newmarket, in the Compass of the Flute._ [Illustration: Music] Buxom _Joan_ got on a bald Mare; she rid ramping on to The Fair, with a Whip and Spur. Such jogging, such flogging, Such splashing, such dashing, was ne’er seen there. Jolly _Tom_, cry’d out as she Come, thou Monkey Face, Punkey Face, lousey Face, Frouzey Face, hold thy Hand, Make a Stand, thou’lt be down. No Sooner _Tom._ spoke, but Down comes _Joan_, with her Head and Bum up and down, So that her A----se was shown. Bald Mare ran galloping all the Way home. _Temple, in a Gentleman’s Chambers._