The Merry-Thought - LightNovelsOnl.com
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From meaner Pleasure I retire, Yet real Happiness pursue; Friends.h.i.+p and Love my Breast inspire, And I have met them both in you,
Whatever in my Wish had Place, In thee, my lovely Fair, I find; All that's beauteous in thy Face, And all that's virtuous in thy Mind.
_Written by Mr. ---- in _Chloe_'s Bed-Chamber._
Wou'd you know the true Road that to Pleasure doth lead, Then this Way, ye Swains, your Footsteps must tread.
And then for the Piece which this Pleasure doth cost, Why, 'tis only a Guinea, you can't think it lost.
Since Supper and Lodging, and Mistress and all, Nay, and Maid, if you like her, are ready at Call.
_The _Thief_ and the _Doctor_._
A Thief a Parson stopp'd on the Highway, And having bid him stand, next bid him pay.
The Parson drew his sword, for well he durst, And quickly put his Foe unto the Worst.
Sir, (quoth the Thief) I by your Habit see, You are a Churchman, and Debate should flee, You know 'tis written in the sacred Word, _Jesus_ to _Peter_ said, _Put up thy Sword_: True, (quoth the Parson) but withal then hear, St. _Peter_ first had cut off _Malchus_'s Ear.
__Pasquin_ against _P. S. Quintus_, when he forbid the Bawdy-Houses at _Rome_, in Queen _Elizabeth_'s Time._
_Lex prohibet Pueros, prohibet Lupanaria Sixtus;_ _Ergo quid agendum? Sit tibi amica ma.n.u.s._
_The Cure of Love._
Love is, as some Physicians say, A Fever bred by too high Feeding: To cure it then the speediest Way, Would be by Purging, and by Bleeding.
_Written in the Window of the Bar of the _White-Swan-Tavern_ of the City of _Norwich_._
Mcccmixixx.
---- ---- ---- _firmissima vina,_ ---- ---- ---- _reponite mensis,_ ---- ---- ---- _& pocula porgite dextris._
_In the Bog-House of the same Tavern._
Six Pennyworth of Whiting, } A Hole to let Light in, } Will make it fit to sh - - te in. }
_Underneath._
By what's above, I welly ween, The Fool wants Light to sh - t him clean.
_In a Bog-House in _St. Michael_'s Parish in _Norwich_._
_Tim Kirby_, _Peter Harrod_, and _Will Hall_, Are three fit Pieces for a Bog-House Wall.
_Underneath. By another._
But _Old Nick_ has got them all.
_Written in a Bog-House at _Ipswich_._
_Si desit stramen, c.u.m digito terge Feramen._
_In _English_. By another._
If you cannot get some Gra.s.s, With your Finger wipe your A - - se
_And under that, by another._
Such wretched _Latin_, and such wretched Verse, Are proper _Stremina_ to clean my A - - se.
_In a Window at _Mount Ephraim_, near _Tunbridge_:_
_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 a.n.a.logy '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_.
