If ’tis to marry when the Knot is ty’d, Why then they marry, who at _Tyburn_ ride. And if that Knot, ’till Death, is loos’d by none, Why then to marry, and be hang’d’s all one. _In a Window in a Public-House, near _Tunbridge_._ Sing High Ding a Ding, And Ho Ding a Ding, I’m finely brought to Bed; My Lord has stole that troublesome Thing, That Folks call a Maidenhead. _Jane Hughs_ eighteen Years of Age. _A little below it, in the same Window._ Then sing High Ding a Ding, And Ho Ding a Ding, You’re finely brought to Bed; For something you’ve got for that troublesome Thing, A Cl--p for a Maidenhead. _By my Lord’s Gentleman._ _Written in the first Leaf of _Arbor Vitæ_._ Two D - - - s, and a Doctor, ’tis said, wrote this Piece, Who were modest as Whores, and witty as Geese. They penn’d it, it seems, to shew their great Parts, Their Skill in Burlesque, and their Knowledge in Arts But what say the Town----that ’t has fully desected, That Fools they are all----which had long been suspected. _At the _Red Lyon_ at _Egham_, and in the Windows at many other Places._ _Cornutus_ call’d his Wife both Whore and Slut, Quoth she, you’ll never leave your Brawling--but-- But, what? quoth he: Quoth she, the Post or Door; For you have Horns to But, if I’m a Whore. _In a Window at the Pudding-House in the Road to _Islington_._ The End of all, and in the End The Praise of all depends: A Pudding merits double Praise, Because it hath two Ends. _Underneath it._ A Pudding hath two Ends; You lye, my Brother, For it begins at one, and ends at t’other. _On Marriage. By a Batchelor._ Wedding and Hanging, both the Fates dispatch. Yet Hanging seems to me the better Match. _In a Window at _Bath_._ _On a Gentleman’s saying he had calculated his Son’s Nativity, the Boy being then about nine Days old._ _Lavinia_ brought to Bed, her Husband looks To know the Bantling’s Fortune in his Books. Wiser he’d been, had he look’d backward rather, And seen for certain, who had been its Father. _In the Vaults at _Tunbridge_._ Dung, when scatter’d o’er the Plain, Causes noble Crops of Grain: Dung in Gardens too we want, To cherish ev’ry springing Plant. Corn and Plants since Dung affords, We eat as well as sh---- our T----ds. _Written in the Window of a Lady’s Chamber, who on a slight Indisposition sent for _S. J. S.__ The Doctor more than Illness we should fear; Sickness precedes, and Death attends his Coach, Agues to Fevers rise, if he appear, And Fevers grow to Plagues at his Approach. _On Miss _Green_._ What gives the pleasant Mead its Grace, What spreads at Spring Earth’s smiling Face, What jolly Hunters chuse to wear, Gives Name to her whose Chains I bear. _On Miss _Partridge_ of _Ely_._