That of the pretty feather’d Race, Which most doth courtly Tables grace, And o’er the Mountains bends it Flight, Or lurks in Fields with Harvest bright; For whose Destruction Men with Care, The noblest Canine Breed prepare, Bestows a Name on that fair Maid Whose Eyes to Love my Heart betray’d. _On Miss _Sk----_ at _Tunbridge_._ The _Irish_ have a certain Root, Our Parsnip’s very like unto’t, Which eats with Butter wond’rous well, And like Potatoes makes a Meal. Now from this Root there comes a Name, Which own’d is by the beauteous Dame, Who sways the Heart of _him_ who rules A mighty Herd of Knaves and Fools. _A _Rebus_ written in one of the Windows of a large House near _Epsom_._ The Court of Love’s assembled here, ’Tis _Venus_ Queen of Beauty’s Sphere, In all her Charms she stands confest, And rules supreme the noblest Breast. Ye Shepherds would ye learn the Name Of her who spreads so vast a Flame, Know that ’tis hid from the Prophane; And that your strictest Search is _Vain_. _In a Window of the Great Room at _Scarborough_._ What strange Vicissitudes we see In Pleasure, as in Realms take Place For nothing here can constant be, Where springing Joys the old efface. The Theatre, of Yore the Field Of Conquests, gain’d by blooming Maids, Now must to modern Operas yield, As they, to courtly Masquerades. Nor better fares those sweet Retreats Which they in sultry Summer chose: Since _Scarb’rough_, Paradise of Sweets! On ruined _Bath_ and _Tunbridge_ rose. _Traced with a Smoke of a Candle in _Newgate_._ _Dick_, on two Words, thought to maintain him ever: The first was _Stand_, and next to _Stand, Deliver_. But _Dick_’s in _Newgate_, and he fears shall never, Be blest again with that sweet Word _Deliver_. _In the Window of a Coffee-House at _Richmond_._ My _Chloe_ is an Angel bright, But _Chloe_’s common----so is Light. And who with _Phœbus_ Fault shall find, Because his Beams to all are kind. _On a Pannel at the Rose._ _Nanny Meadowes_ has undone me, From myself her Charms have won me. With Love’s blazing Flames I die, Whither, whither shall I fly! _Underneath._ Prithee, Coxcomb, without Whining, Say thou hast a mind to Sinning With a Guinea, do but ask her, Love you’ll find----is no hard Task, Sir. _On a long-winded Preacher at _Coventry_: From a Window there._ Twelve Minutes, and one tedious Hour _Mills_ kept me once in Pain, But if I had it my Power, He ne’er should preach again. _A _Liliputian_ ODE. Composed at _Tunbridge_._ Charming _Molly_, Cease your Folly, Learn to ease me, No more teaze me. Love’s but Reason When in Season: Nay, ’tis Duty, Youth and Beauty To improve In happy Love. Therefore, _Molly_, Cease your Folly, And instead of being coy, Give, O give your Lover Joy! _The _Fair Lady’s Answer_. In the same Measure._