The Merry-Thought - LightNovelsOnl.com
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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 n.o.ble 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_._
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 n.o.blest 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 b.u.t.ter 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 a.s.sembled here, 'Tis _Venus_ Queen of Beauty's Sphere, In all her Charms she stands confest, And rules supreme the n.o.blest 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_._
_d.i.c.k_, on two Words, thought to maintain him ever: The first was _Stand_, and next to _Stand, Deliver_.
But _d.i.c.k_'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 _Phbus_ 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, c.o.xcomb, 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._
Rhiming _Billy_, Soft and silly, Are the verses, Muse rehea.r.s.es, When with straining You're obtaining Her a.s.sistance 'Gainst Resistance, Made by Mistress To your Distress.
Therefore early Quit them fairly, If you'd be rid of Woe, Prithee, Prithee, c.o.xcomb, do.
_The Clowns and the Conjurer. By a Lady._
A Clown, who had lost his Mare, To his Neighbour, a Wit, did repair, And begg'd him with him to go To the famous Doctor _Foreknow_, A Conjurer powerful and strong, Who would tell who had done the Wrong.
So when to the Door they came, The Wit, he besh - - t the same: Then knocking -- the Doctor appears, And in Midst of his Pa.s.sion he swears, If he knew but the nasty Dog Who had sh - - t at his Gate like a Rogue, He'd do to him Lord knows what.
Quoth the Wit -- why know you not that?
Then, Neighbour, e'en save your Pence, For his Learning is all a Pretence: If he knows not who sh - t----of course, He nothing can know of your Horse.
And no Light can his Figures afford, Whose Conjuring's not worth a T---- So as wise our two Clowns came Home, As any who on such Errands roam.
