Dogs on their Masters fawn and leap, And wag their Tails apace, So tho’ a Flatterer wants a Tail, His Tongue supplies its Place. _In a Window of the _Rene-Deer-Inn_ at _Bishop’s-Strafford_._ He that loves a Glass without a G, Leave out L, and that is he. _Wrote with a Pencil on a Pannel in one of the Courts of Justice in _Guild-Hall_._ To go to Law I have no Maw, Altho’ my Suit be sure, For I may lack Cloaths to my Back, E’er I that Suit procure. _At the Tuns in _Cambridge_. Written with a Pencil on the Wall._ Marriage in Days of old has liken’d been Unto a publick Feast, or Revel Rout, Where those who are without would fain get in, And those who are within would fain get out. _On two old Maids: Written with a Pencil in the _Pump Room_ at _Bath_._ Why are _Doll_’s Teeth so white, and _Susan_’s black? The Reason soon is known. _Doll_ buys her Teeth which she doth lack, But _Susan_ wears her own. _In a Window, at the _Rose-Tavern_ in _Catherine-Street_._ _On Mrs. _C---- P----__ So early _Con_ began the wanton Trade, She scarce remembers when she was a Maid. _In the Window of a Sharper’s Chambers in the _Temple_._ Oft with an Oath has _Cog_ the Gamester said, That no Disease should make him keep his Bed, Urg’d for a Reason, I have heard him tell it, To keep my Word----in Troth I mean to sell it. _In a Bog-House at _Putney_._ The Poor have _little_, Beggars _none_, The Rich _too much_, _enough_, not one. _Written at the Request of a Lady who on her Wedding Day entreated an old Lover to write something upon her in the Window._ This glittering Diamond, and this worthless Glass, _Celia_, display thy Virtue and thy Face; Bright as the Brilliant while thy Beauty shows Ev’n Glass itself’s less brittle than thy Vows. _The _Italian_ Gout._ If a Man lets a Fart in fair _Italy_, From Lovers he never is after free; For why ---- amongst those Dons, ’tis said, ’Tis a certain Sign of a Male Maidenhead. _In a Window of a certain Lady of Pleasure’s Lodgings in _Bow-Street_._ When with _Phillis_ toying, Eager for enjoying, What Muse can say How sweet our Play, What Numbers tell The Joys we feel? Happy Lovers only know Bliss unmix’d with any Woe. The Ambitious when rais’d to the Summit of Power, In the Midst of their Joy fear that Fortune may lower; The Miser, who Thousands has heap’d in his Chest, In the Midst of Riches is never at rest. And the Heroe, whose Bosom his Glory still warms, In the Midst of his Conquests fears the Change of his Arms. But the Lover, whose Fondness his Hours doth employ, In the Midst of her Charms knows no End of his Joy.