The Wedding-Night past, says Sir _John_ to his Mate, Faith Madam I’m bit (tho’ I find it too late) By your d - - - n’d little Mouth, or else I’m a Whore’s Son, For the Cross underneath’s quite out of Proportion. Good Sir _John_, says my Lady, then under the Rose, I’m as bad bit as you, by your plaguy long Nose: You have not by half so much as I wanted, I’ve more than you want, yet y’are not contented. _From the Playhouse Boghouse._ Good Folks, sh - - t and write, and mend honest Bog’s Trade, For when you sh - - t Rhymes, you help him to Bread: He’el feed on a Jest, that is broke with your Wind, And fatten on what you here leave behind. _From A Boghouse at the _White Hart_, Petersfield._ Were this Place to be view’d by a Herald of Note, He would find a new Charge for the next new-bought Coat, Which _Guillim_ ne’er thought of, nor one of the Herd, _Viz._ a Wall erect Argent, _Gutte de T----d._ And as a Reward, for improving the Art, He should bear on a Fess (if he paints it) a F - - - t. _Underwritten._ A Pox on your writing, I thought you were sh - - - - g, My great Gut has giv’n me such Twitches: Had you scribled much more, I’m a Son of a Whore, If I should not have don’t in my Breeches. _From the _White Lyon_, _Bristol_._ I’m witty, I’ll Write, I’m valiant, I’ll Fight, And take all that’s said in my own Sense: In Liquor I’m sunk, And confoundedly drunk, So there is the Source of this Nonsense. _From the same Place._ A Wretch, whom Fortune has been pleas’d to rowl From the Tip-top of her enchanted Bowl, Sate musing on his Fate, but could not guess, Nor give a Reason for her Fickleness: Such Thoughts as these would ne’er his Brain perplex, Did he but once reflect upon her Sex: For how could he expect, or hope to see, In Woman either Truth or Constancy. _Written on the Wall of one of the Summer-Houses in _Gray’s-Inn_ Walks, under a curious Piece of Drawing._ Come hither, Heralds, view this Coat, ’Twill bear Examination, ’Tis ancient, and derives its Note From the first Pair’s Creation. The Field is _Luna_, _Mars_ a Pale, Within an Orle of _Saturn_; Charg’d with two Pellets at the Tail: Pray take it for a Pattern. _Under-written._ I don’t see your _Luna_, nor _Saturn_, nor _Mars_, But I see her ---- plain, and I see his bare A - - se. _From another Place in the same Walks._ Could fairest dear _Eliza_ know how much I love, My Story might, at least, her gen’rous Pity move; Her Pity’s all my Hope, nor durst I more implore, With that I still might live, and still her Charms adore. _Under-written._ Poor Wretch, alas! I pity Thee with all my heart, Since that, it seems, alone will cure thy Love-sick Smart: For he that has not Courage further to implore, May surely have our Pity, but deserves no more. _From a _Bog-House_ at the _George-Inn_ in _Whitchurch_._