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_On A Window at Canbury-House._
The Breast of ev'ry _British_ Fair, Like this bright, brittle, slippery Gla.s.s, A Diamond makes Impression there, Though on the Finger of an a.s.s.
_On a Person of Quality's Boghouse._
Good Lord! who could think, That such fine Folks should stink?
_On a Window at Bushy-Hall, Hertfords.h.i.+re._
Love is like Blindman's Buff, where we pursue, We know not what we catch, we know not who; And when we grasp our Wish, what Prize is won?
Our Eyes are open'd, and the Play is done.
_Some Love Verses being first written on a Window in Brook-Street, and scratched out, occasioned the following:_
Good grave Papa, you hope in vain, By blotting this to mend her; She who writes Love upon the Pane, Will soon leap out at Window.
_On the Middle Temple Boghouse._
Well sung of Yore, a Bard of Wit, That some Folks read, but all Folks sh - - - t; But now the Case is alter'd quite, Since all who come to Boghouse write.
_On the same Place._
Because they cannot eat, some Authors write; And some, it seems, because they cannot sh - - te.
_On a Gla.s.s at the Devil Tavern, Temple-Bar._
The stubborn Gla.s.s no Character receives, Except the Stamp the piercing Brilliant gives.
A female Heart thus no Impression takes, But what the Lover tipp'd with Diamond makes.
_At Launder's Coffee-House, in the Old Play-House Pa.s.sage._
Dear _Pat_, 'tis vain to patch or paint, Since still a fragrant Breath you want; For though well furnish'd, yet all Folks Despise a Room whose Chimney smokes.
_White-Hart at Watford._
Parody of four Lines of _Dryden_.
Gla.s.s with a Diamond does our Wit betray; Who can write sure on that smooth slippery Way?
Pleas'd with our scribling we cut swiftly on, And see the Nonsense, which we cannot shun.
_In a Window at the Kings-Arms Tavern, Fleet-Street._
Both mine and Women's Fate you'll judge from hence ill, That we are pierc'd by ev'ry c.o.xcomb's Pencil.
_Written in a Window at a private House, by a desponding Lover in the Presence of his Mistress._
This Gla.s.s, my Fair's the Emblem of your Mind, Which brittle, slipp'ry, pois'nous oft we find.
_Her Answer underneath._
I must confess, kind Sir, that though this Gla.s.s, Can't prove me brittle, it proves you an a.s.s.
_Sent by an unknown Hand._
O ye Powers above!
Who of Mortals take Care, Make Women less cruel, More fond, or less fair.
Was _Helen_ half so fair, so form'd for Joy, Well fought the _Trojan_, and well burnt was _Troy_.
_FINIS._
The
MERRY-THOUGHT:
or, the
Gla.s.s-Window and Bog-House
MISCELLANY.
Taken from
The Original Ma.n.u.scripts written in _Diamond_ by Persons of the first Rank and Figure in _Great Britain_; relating to Love, Matrimony, Drunkenness, Sobriety, Ranting, Scandal, Politicks, Gaming, and many other Subjects, _Serious_ and _Comical_.
Faithfully Transcribed from the Drinking-Gla.s.ses and Windows in the several noted _Taverns_, _Inns_, and other _Publick Places_ in this Nation. Amongst which are intermixed the Lucubrations of the polite Part of the World, written upon Walls in Bog-houses, _&c._
_Published by_ HURLO THRUMBO.
_Gameyorum, Wildum, Gorum, Gameyorum a Gamey, Flumarum a Flumarum, A Rigdum Bollarum A Rigdum, for a little Gamey._
