_A Dialogue between a Lover and a Poet._ _Lov._ What is bright _Celia_ like, Dear Poet, say? _Poet._ Why _Celia_, Sir, is like a Summer’s Day. _Lov._ Who to a Day could liken such a Woman? _Poet._ Is she not very _fair_, and very _common_? _Written with a Pencil in the Vault at _Chelsea College_._ Who scribbles on the Wall when he’s at sh - -, May sure be said to have a Flux of Wit. _In the Vaults at _Tunbridge_._ Like Claret-Drinkers Stools, a Blockhead’s Brain; Hardly conceives what it brings forth with Pain. Such is my Case----who, while I’m thus inditing, Prove the Analogy ’twixt it and Sh------. _Written on the Window of a Coffee-House._ _Underneath, Coffee, Tea,_ &c. The Mistress by her Window’s represented, For why, ’tis brittle Ware, and painted. _On a Butcher’s marrying a Tanner’s Daughter at _Reading_._ A fitter Match there never could have been, Since here the _Flesh_ is wedded to the _Skin_. _At _Tunbridge_._ _Chloe_ is fair as _Fields_ in Autumn seen, Her Temper gentle as the purling _Stream_: That’s true; but then with those the rest conspire, Lighter she is than _Air_, and hot as _Fire_. _In Mrs. _Cowser_’s Window; in _Russel-Street_, _Covent-Garden_._ Love, ’tis said, his Arrows shooting, Wounds is ever distributing; But before I felt, I knew not, That in Poison dipp’d they flew hot. To _Jenny_ I owe That this Secret I know, For her I felt Smart At first in my Heart; Which quickly she cur’d: But alack and alas! I now feel a Throbbing in a much lower Place. To _Jenny_ I went; but, alas! it was in vain: Though she gave me the Wound, she can’t cure me again. _An Epitaph on an old Maid._ Beneath this Place there lies an ancient Maid, Whose secret Parts no Man did e’er invade; Scarce her own Finger she’d permit to touch That Virgin Part, altho’ it itched much. And in her last expiring dying Groans, Desir’d no Tomb, if it was built with Stones. _The Effects of Love._ Love is the sweetest softest Passion, That can warm the human Soul; ’Tis a gentle Inclination Which doth ev’ry Care controul: Thro’ our Bosom Love diffusing, Tender Thoughts is ever choosing; Softest Words its Flame expressing, Towards the Dame our Heart possessing. Love still gentle makes and easy, Soft in ev’ry Thing we do; Bent on all Things that may please ye, Men are Angels when they Woo. _This was wrote somewhere; and means something, if you can find it out._ A Beauty like her’s whose Charms I now sing, Ne’er sparkled in vain in the Box or the Ring; No Youth of Distinction who gaz’d on her Eyes, E’er retir’d, but he left her his Heart as her Prize. Vain are all their Endeavours, for still the coy Maid, At the Mention of Marriage, look’d strangely afraid, Nor e’er thought of yeilding----until not long since Eluding dull Ties----she was join’d to a P---- _FINIS._