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  [Transcriber’s Note:

  The texts cited use a variety of long and short dashes, generally with
  no relationship to the number of letters omitted. For this e-text,
  short dashes are shown as separated hyphens, while longer dashes are
  shown as connected hyphens:

      D - - - n _Molley H----ns_ for her Pride.

  Groups of vertical braces } represent a single brace encompassing
  three-- in one case, four-- rhymed lines.]

       *       *       *       *       *
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  The Augustan Reprint Society

  THE
  MERRY-THOUGHT:

  or, the
  Glass-Window and Bog-House
  MISCELLANY.


  Parts 2, 3, and 4
  (1731-?)


  _Introduction by_
  MAXIMILLIAN E. NOVAK


  Publication Number 221-222
  WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY
  University of California, Los Angeles
  1983




GENERAL EDITOR

  David Stuart Rodes, _University of California, Los Angeles_


EDITORS

  Charles L. Batten, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  George Robert Guffey, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Maximillian E. Novak, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Nancy M. Shea, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
  Thomas Wright, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_


ADVISORY EDITORS

  Ralph Cohen, _University of Virginia_
  William E. Conway, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
  Vinton A. Dearing, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Phillip Harth, _University of Wisconsin, Madison_
  Louis A. Landa, _Princeton University_
  Earl Miner, _Princeton University_
  James Sutherland, _University College, London_
  Norman J. W. Thrower, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
  Robert Vosper, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
  John M. Wallace, _University of Chicago_


PUBLICATIONS MANAGER

  Nancy M. Shea, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_


CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

  Beverly J. Onley, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_


EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

  Frances Miriam Reed, _University of California, Los Angeles_




INTRODUCTION


In an address to the American Society for Eighteenth Century Studies at
the 1983 annual meeting, Roger Lonsdale suggested that our knowledge of
eighteenth-century poetry has depended heavily on what our anthologies
have decided to print. For the most part modern anthologies have, in
turn, drawn on collections put together at the end of the eighteenth
century and the beginning of the next, when the ideal for inclusion was
essentially that of “polite taste.” The obscene, the feminine, and the
political were by general cultural agreement usually omitted. Lonsdale
is not the only scholar questioning the basis of the canon; indeed,
revisionism is fast becoming one of the more ingenious--and
useful--parlor games among academics. Modern readers are no longer so
squeamish about obscenity nor so uncomfortable with the purely personal
lyric as were the editors at the end of the eighteenth century. And we
are hardly likely to find poetry written by women objectionable on that
score alone. In short, the anthologies we depend upon are out of date.


Among the works that would never have been a source of poems for the
canon, and one mentioned by Lonsdale, was the collection of verse
published in four parts by J. Roberts beginning in 1731, _The
Merry-Thought: or, the Glass-Window and Bog-House Miscellany_, commonly
known simply as _The Bog-House Miscellany_. Its contemporary reputation
may be described as infamous. James Bramston, in his _The Man of Taste_
(1733), mentioned it as an example in poetry of the very opposite of
“good Taste” (ARS 171 [1975], 7). Polite taste, of course, is meaningful
only if it can define itself by what it excludes, and nothing could be
in worse taste than a collection of pieces written on windows, carved in
tables, or inscribed on the walls of Britain’s loos.

Just as the compilers of a modern work, _The Good Loo Guide_, were
parodying a well-known guide book to British restaurants, so the unknown
authors of _The Merry-Thought_ had some notion, however discontinuous,
of parodying the nation’s polite literature. Were not Pope and Swift
famous for their distinguished miscellanies? What could be more amusing
than a collection of poems that represented a different poetic
ideal--a collection of verse with none of the pretensions to artistic
merit claimed by the superstars of the poetic world--the spontaneous
productions of nonpoets in moments of idleness or desperation.
Apparently some of the inscribers in the bog-houses used excrement
as a medium for--as well as a subject of--their inscriptions. _The
Merry-Thought_, then, is not even the kind of art that Dryden attacked
in _MacFlecknoe_ and Pope in his _Dunciad_--the work of bad poets
masquerading as geniuses.[1] Rather, it is a primitive form of folk art
produced as a more or less spontaneous act of play or passion, and
achieving some small degree of respectability only when practiced by a
respected poet and collected with his more serious verse.[2] Like modern
“serial” graffiti, it could function as a form of communication since
the first inscriptions often provoked those who followed to make their
own contributions.

  [Footnote 1: On the other hand, the willingness of publishers to
  bring out such material would have suited well enough with Pope’s
  picture of heir heroic games. See Alexander Pope, _The Dunciad_, ed.
  James utherland, Twickenham Edition, 2d ed., rev. (London: Methuen,
  1953), 97-306, bk 2, lines 17-220.]

  [Footnote 2: See, for example, W. H. Auden’s “Academic Graffiti,” in
  Collected Poems_, ed. Edward Mendelsohn (London: Faber and Faber,
  976), 510-18. Such a verse as the following is more clever than most
  raffiti, but like ordinary graffiti it remains essentially
  “unpoetic”: Lord Byron / Once succumbed to a Siren. / His flesh was
  weak, / Hers reek.”]

Indeed, one of the more interesting aspects of graffiti is that in an
impermanent form it testifies to the continuance over the centuries of
certain human concerns. Recent studies of graffiti have often focused on
particular modern conflicts between races or nations, on drug problems,
and on specific political commentary.[3] But such local matters aside,
the content of modern graffiti is surprisingly like that of earlier
periods: scatological observations, laments of lovers, accusations
against women for their sexual promiscuity, the repetition of “trite”
poems and sayings, and messages attributed to various men and women
suggesting their sexual availability and proficiency. And if the
political targets have changed over the years, many of the political
attitudes have remained consistent. Graffiti is an irreverent form, with
strong popular and anti-establishment elements. As actions common to all
classes, eating, drinking, defecation, and fornication find their lowly
record in graffiti-like form.

  [Footnote 3: See, for example, Elizabeth Wales and Barbara Brewer,
  “Graffiti in the 1970’s,” _Journal of Social Psychology_ 99 (1976):
  115-23.]

On the most basic level, a writer will observe that the excrement of
the rich differs in no way from that of the poor. Thus one poem, taken
supposedly from a “Person of Quality’s Boghouse,” has the following
sentiment:

  Good Lord! who could think,
  That such fine Folks should stink?
                                  (Pt. 2, p. 25)

There is nothing very polite about such observations, and no pretension
to art. These verses belong strictly to folklore and the sociology of
literature, but they suggest some continuing rumbles of discontent
against the class system, the existence among the lower orders of some
of the egalitarian attitudes that survived the passing of the Lollards
and the Levellers. Who were the writers of these pieces? Were they
indeed laborers? Or were they from the lower part of what was called the
“middle orders”? Is there some evidence to be found in the very fact
that they could write?

Graffiti may, indeed, tell us something about degrees of literacy. One
wit remarked that whatever the ability to read or write may have been at
the time, almost everyone seemed to have been literate when presented
with a bog-house wall: “Since all who come to Bog-house write” (pt. 2,
p. 26). The traditional connection between defecation and writing was
another comparison apparent to the commentators. One wrote:

  There’s Nothing foul that we commit,
  But what we write, and what we sh - - t.
                                    (Pt. 2, p. 13)

And the lack of some paper or material to clean the rear end provoked
the following sentiment in the form of a litany:

  From costive Stools, and hide-bound Wit,
  From Bawdy Rhymes, and Hole besh - - t.
  From Walls besmear’d with stinking Ordure,
  By Swine who nee’r provide Bumfodder
                            _Libera Nos_----
                                      (Pt. 4, p. 7)

Other types of graffiti, however, vary from the very earnest expression
of affection to the nonexcrementally satiric. One of the more unusual is
a poem in praise of a faithful and loving wife:

  I kiss’d her standing,
    Kiss’d her lying,
  Kiss’d her in Health,
    And kiss’d her dying;
  And when she mounts _the Skies_,
    I’ll kiss her flying.
                                 (Pt. 3, p. 5)

Underneath this poem, _The Merry-Thought_ records a favorable comment on
the sentiment. Even more earnest is the complaint of a woman about her
fate in love:

  Since cruel Fate has robb’d me of the Youth,
  For whom my Heart had hoarded all its Truth,
  I’ll ne’er love more, dispairing e’er to find,
  Such Constancy and Truth amongst Mankind.
                           _Feb._ 18, 1725.
                                      (Pt. 2, p. 12)

We will never know why she was unable to marry the man she truly loved;
but her bitterness may have been short-lived. Just after this
inscription comes a cynical comment identifying the lady as a member of
the Walker family. And the writer insists that like all women she was
inconstant, since he kissed her the next night.

This cynical approach to love and women dominates _The Merry-Thought_.
Part three, for instance, contains a poem that reads like a parody of
Belinda awaking in the first canto of Pope’s _Rape of the Lock_. The
author, identified as W. Overb - - ry, presents a realistic morning
scene without either the charms and beauties that surround Pope’s
Belinda or the viciousness and focus of Swift’s similar pictures (see
pt. 3, p. 26).

Prevailingly, women are depicted as sexually insatiable, as in a piece
written by a man who takes a month’s vacation from sex to recoup his
strength (pt. 2, p. 12). And the related image of the female with a
sexual organ capable of absorbing a man plays a variation on the vagina
dentata theme (e.g., pt. 2, pp. 19, 24). A drawing of a man hanging
himself for love raises a considerable debate on whether such a thing
can indeed occur (pt. 2, pp. 17-18). In a more realistic vein, though
equally cynical, is the poem on the woman who complained of her husband
making her pregnant so often:

  A poor Woman was ill in a dangerous Case,
  She lay in, and was just as some other Folks was:
  By the Lord, cries _She_ then, if my Husband e’er come,
  Once again with his Will for to tickle my Bum,
  I’ll storm, and I’ll swear, and I’ll run staring wild;
  And yet the next Night, the Man got her with Child.
                              S. M. 1708.
                                      (Pt. 2, pp. 10-11)

S. M. is clearly unsympathetic to the plight of married women in an age
with only the most primitive forms of birth control.[4] The picture of
her as a long-suffering person is undercut by the casual male assumption
that giving birth was not really dangerous and that women make too much
of the pain and difficulty. That women were often forced to go through
thirteen or fourteen deliveries when little thought had yet been given
to creating an antiseptic environment for childbirth is apparently of
little concern to S. M., who finds in the apparent willingness of the
woman to have sexual intercourse one more time sufficient reason for
contempt.

  [Footnote 4: For an account of the horrors associated with
  childbirth, see Lawrence Stone, _The Family, Sex, and Marriage in
  England, 1500-1800_ (New York: Harper and Row, 1977), 79-80.]

In addition to giving glimpses into social attitudes, _The
Merry-Thought_ has a variety of inscriptions that show the way these
writings functioned. Professor George Guffey, in his introduction to
the first part of this work (ARS 216 [1982], iii-iv), remarks upon the
proposal scene carried on in _Moll Flanders_ between Moll and the
admirer who will prove her third husband and her brother. Such scenes
involving witty proposals and responses cut into the windows of taverns
were real enough at the time. The exchange in part two of _The
Merry-Thought_ is not, however, half so satisfactory. The woman takes
umbrage at her admirer’s suggestions that the glass on which he writes
is “the Emblem” of her mind in being “brittle, slipp’ry, [and]
pois’nous,” and writes in retort:

  I must confess, kind Sir, that though this Glass,
  Can’t prove me brittle, it proves you an Ass.
                                          (Pt. 2, p. 27)

Though an easy cynicism about women’s availability and about the
body’s insistently animal functions predominates, there is enough
variety in _The Merry-Thought_ to provide something of a picture of
eighteenth-century society were any future anthropologist to come
upon this volume as the sole remnant of that period. He would see a
society engaged rather more in animal functions than in intellectual
pursuits--a society rather more concerned with drinking, love, and
defecation than the picture presented by the polite and intellectual
literature of the time allowed. But he would also find in the satirical
squibs on Corny, the Cambridge bookseller and printer, evidence of
learning and university life (pt. 2, pp. 4-6) as well as a criticism of
opera (pt. 2, pp. 14-16). He would see numerous young men longing for
their mistresses to soften their hearts toward them, and cynical older
men who had lost their illusions about love. But he could also come upon
a straight piece of philosophy taken from the still fashionable Flask
tavern in Hampstead (pt. 2, p. 24) or lowly bits of pious folk wisdom
(pt. 2, p. 10). More often, however, he would uncover a society in which
there was little of the generalized style that characterizes even the
most personal formal poetry of the period. Many of the writers identify
themselves and the names of the women they love or detest. In short, if
these volumes do little else, they do provide a vivid glimpse into the
personal life of the time, and to that extent an injection of some of
these inscriptions into the anthologies of the period might help in
providing a lively and piquant context for the serious artistic
production of writers like Gay and Swift.


The announced “publisher” of this olio was one Hurlothrumbo, a character
drawn from the theatrical piece of that name by Samuel Johnson of
Cheshire (1691-1773). Professor Guffey has proposed that James Roberts,
for whom the four parts were printed, “was almost certainly the
collector of the graffiti” and that the name of Hurlothrumbo was invoked
in order to attract some of the attention that Samuel Johnson of
Cheshire and his play were still receiving two years after the play’s
first performance and publication.[5] But Roberts would appear an
unlikely candidate for the role of editor;[6] I would suggest, rather,
the possibility of a more direct and active connection with Samuel
Johnson of Cheshire: that he was himself likely the compiler of the
four parts of _The Merry-Thought_ and that, whatever the individual
versifiers may have intended, this infamous collection of graffiti--_as
collection_--shares very closely with Johnson’s other work a spirit of
wild variety, eccentric juxtaposition, and essential anarchism that is
meant to lead, not to clever parody of polite literature, but to a new,
almost apocalyptic vision of the sublime.

  [Footnote 5: See ARS 216, x, n. 12. Professor Guffey offers
  parallels between _The Merry-Thought_ and _Hurlothrumbo_ in
  “Graffiti, Hurlo Thrumbo, and the Other Samuel Johnson,” _Forum:
  A Journal of the Humanities and Fine Arts_ 17 (1979): 35-47.]

  [Footnote 6: Michael Treadwell has demonstrated that the “trade
  publishers” of the eighteenth century, such as James Roberts, acted
  almost exclusively as binders and distributors of books and were
  therefore different in kind from the printers and booksellers, who
  were directly involved in the selection and production process.
  Roberts and the other “trade publishers” dealt almost exclusively in
  “works belonging to others,” and Treadwell singles out Roberts as
  the purest example. Despite putting his name to “literally thousands
  of works,” he never purchased any of the copyrights on works during
  his long career. See “London Trade Publishers, 1675-1750,”
  _Library_, 6th ser., 4 (1982): 99-134.]

At the first level, _Hurlothrumbo: Or, The Super-Natural_ (1729) itself
appears to be quite simply a parody, in this case of opera in the form
of a work mixing dialogue and song in a manner similar to but much
wilder than Gay’s _Beggar’s Opera_. Johnson’s apparent takeoff on the
heroics of opera managed to include in its attack a commentary upon the
absurdity of contemporary tragedy as well as some specific references to
those works that aimed at the sublime. Lines like “This World is all a
Dream, an Outside, a Dunghill pav’d with Diamonds” (48) seem to call the
very nature of metaphor into question, especially when juxtaposed with
other delirious lines such as “Rapture is the Egg of Love, hatched
by a radiant Eye” (14) or by songs such as that sung by the king on
contemplating the effects of swallowing gunpowder and brandy together:

  Then Lightning from the Nostrils flies.
  Swift Thunder-bolts from Anus, and the Mouth will break,
  With Sounds to pierce the Skies, and make the Earth to quake.
                                                      (P. 42)

_Hurlothrumbo_ may be mostly nonsense, but from the standpoint of
literary history, it is highly significant nonsense. It represented a
revolt against all dramatic conventions and shared a number of qualities
with graffiti, including the sense of spontaneity.

Had Johnson’s intention been something as relatively uncomplicated as
literary parody he would have achieved some minor fame in a century
which could boast any number of geniuses who had specialized in deriding
the pretentiousness of the more established literary forms, particularly
tragedy, the epic, and the pastoral. But Johnson of Cheshire lacked the
aesthetic distance required of sustained irony and had a grander purpose
in mind. His tradition was not that of the parodist but rather that of
the visionary--the mystic whose tendency is to merge the high and the
low, the sublime and the absurd, within a single work.[7] He was not
attacking the extravagant rants of the heroic play as Fielding was to do
in his _Tragedy of Tragedies_ (1731) or reflecting on opera and pastoral
as Gay had done in _The Beggar’s Opera_ (1728); rather he was trying,
however unsuccessfully, to maintain his own work at the highest reaches
of sublimity. He was like one of Pope’s “_Flying Fishes_,” who “now and
then rise upon their fins and fly out of the Profound; but their wings
are soon dry, and they drop down to the bottom.”[8]

  [Footnote 7: See Martin Pops, “The Metamorphosis of Shit,”
  _Salmagundi_ 56 (1982): 27-61.]

  [Footnote 8: Alexander Pope, _Peri Bathous_, in _Literary Criticism
  of Alexander Pope_, ed. Bertrand A. Goldgar (Lincoln: University of
  Nebraska Press, 1965), 54.]

In his preface to _The Blazing Comet; or the Beauties of the Poets_
(1732), Johnson of Cheshire noted that “the same thought that makes the
Fool laugh, may make the wise Man sigh” (ix). Given such an equivocal
approach to the ways in which the audience responded to his work, the
poet could easily shrug off audience laughter to his most “Sublime”
lines. He was always ready “to leap up in Extasy; and dip ... [his] Pen
in the Sun” (iv). Parts of _Hurlothrumbo_, particularly the scene
between Lady Flame and Wildfire (both of whom are described in the list
of characters as “mad”) in which Wildfire threatens to cast off his
clothes and “run about stark naked” (48), bear an odd resemblance to
“The King’s Cameleopard” in _Huckleberry Finn_. But the disconnected
verbal structure, along with the music and dancing, achieves a strange
mixture that must have amused and, to a certain extent, bemused its
audience.

Johnson called upon “Variety” as his most important artistic principle,
and he developed his ideas on this subject in _A Vision of Heaven_
(1738), a work which bears a striking resemblance to William Blake’s
_The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_.[9] Johnson argues that all surface
appearances are merely a form of “Hieroglyphic” concealing a true vision
of things (6). His narrator is capable of what Blake was to call “mental
flight,” and there is a particularly vivid passage in which the stars
are seen as throwing down “freezing Daggers” at the poor starving
children in the streets and another in which we encounter an aged woman
who wields a broom against spiders and against all the young women who
threaten to come near the narrator (26).[10] The mystic temperament is
often capable of making connections between the spiritual and the
excremental,[11] between the sublime and the bathos of “Thunder-bolts
from Anus.” Blake, we should recall, has poems depicting himself
defecating.[12]

  [Footnote 9: Without suggesting that Blake may have known of
  Johnson’s work, I would nevertheless note the similarity of certain
  sections. Like Blake, Johnson mingled comedy and satire in his
  vision.]

  [Footnote 10: Compare Blake’s “The Mental Traveler,” _The Poetry and
  Prose of William Blake_, ed. David Erdman and Harold Bloom (Garden
  City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1970), 476-77.]

  [Footnote 11: See Pops, 31.]

  [Footnote 12: Blake, _Poetry and Prose_, 491.]

Whether Johnson actually collected _The Merry-Thought_ or not, the
reasons for the association of these volumes with his name should then
be clear enough. While Fielding might appropriate the title “Scriblerus
Secundus” by way of staking out a line of descent for his humor and
satire, Hurlothrumbo was so thoroughly connected with Johnson and his
play that I can see no reason why he should not be considered the likely
editor of such a varied and eccentric collection of verse and prose as
_The Merry-Thought_. That the “Variety” bears no resemblance to that of
serious art, however, should be as obvious as the difference between a
William Blake and a Samuel Johnson of Cheshire. As William Hogarth was
to remark, “variety uncomposed, and without design is confusion and
deformity.”[13]

  [Footnote 13: _The Analysis of Beauty_, ed. Joseph Burke (Oxford:
  Clarendon Press, 1955), 35.]

Of course, miscellanies by their very nature are likely to be organized
according to principles of variety. What makes _The Merry-Thought_
different from those appealing to polite taste is the wide swings of
emotion that prompt the writers of these poems and catch the compiler’s
fancy. As we have seen, the verses themselves vary from the grossest
comments on shit to the most passionate expressions of love. That the
one is likely to appear on the walls of latrines and the other to be cut
in glass by a diamond is part of what Johnson would have called the
“Hieroglyphic” significance of this collection. In Johnson’s plays,
there is the odd mixture of vulgarity and sublimity, the comic and the
serious, the satirical and the nonsensical. If his dramas bear a
resemblance to Jarry’s _Ubu Roi_, so _The Merry-Thought_ resembles the
kind of anthology that Jarry might have put together to illustrate the
absurd anarchy of the human spirit. Johnson, on the other hand, regarded
this seeming anarchy of human thoughts and feelings optimistically as an
emblem of human spirituality.

_University of California,_

  _Los Angeles_




BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE


Part 2 (“The SECOND EDITION”) and Part 3 of _The Merry-Thought_ are
reproduced in photographic facsimile from the copies in the William
Andrews Clark Memorial Library (Shelf Mark: *PR1195/H8H9/1731). They are
bound together with Part 1 (“the Third Edition; with very Large
Additions and Alterations”), which was published as ARS 216 in 1982.
A typical type page (pt. 2. p. 7) measures 154 x 87 mm. Part 4 is
reproduced from the copy in the Bodleian Library, Oxford (Shelf Mark:
Douce T. 168[5]).




                      The

                 MERRY-THOUGHT:

                    or, the

          Glass-Window and Bog-House

                  MISCELLANY.

                  Taken from

  The Original Manuscripts 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-Glasses and
    Windows in the several noted _Taverns_, _Inns_, and
    other _Publick Places_ in this Nation. Amongst which
    are inserted several curious Pieces from both
    Universities.

  _Published by_ HURLO THRUMBO.

    _Gameyorum, Wildum, Gorum,
    Gameyorum a Gamy,
    Flumarum a Flumarum,
    A Rigdum Bollarum
    A Rigdum, for a little Gamey._

        Bethleham-Wall, Moor-Fields.


  PART II.

  The SECOND EDITION.

    _LONDON_:

  Printed for J. ROBERTS in _Warwick-Lane_; and Sold by
    the Booksellers in Town and Country. [Price 6 _d._]




_N. B._ The Editor returns his hearty Thanks to those Gentlemen who have
favoured him with their Letters, and intreats that they will be so good
as to continue to communicate whatever they shall meet with of this Kind
to the Publisher.




THE

MERRY-THOUGHT.

PART II.




INTRODUCTION.


You will pardon the Editor that he does not put Things better in Order;
but he is so engaged in reading the Letters sent him in from the two
Universities, after the Publication of the First Part, that he believes
the Preface is in the Middle of the Book; but I dare swear you’ll find
it somewhere or other, and so read on.


_In _Trinity-College_ Bogs._

  Ye _Cantabs_ mind when ye are sh - - t - - ng,
  How nearly ’tis allied to Writing.
  ----To Writing, say you? ----pray how so?
  An uncouth Simile, I trow.

  ----Hold, pray ---- Condemn it not untry’d;
  Hear only how it is apply’d.

    As learned _Johnian_ wracks his Brain----
  Thinks, ----hems, ----looks wise, ----then thinks again;----
  When all this Preparation’s done,
  The mighty Product is ---- a Pun.

    So some with direful strange Grimaces,
  Within this Dome distort their Faces;
  Strain, ----squeeze, ----yet loth for to depart,
  Again they strain--for what? a Fart.

    Hence _Cantabs_ take this moral Trite,
  ’Gainst Nature, if ye think or sh - - te;
  Use all the Labour, all the Art,
  ’Twill ne’er exceed a Pun, or Fart.


_Red-Lion, Egham._

  Coquets will always merry prove;             }
  But Prudes are those _give down their love_; }
  And love and move, and move to love.         }


_Underwritten._

  A Prude for my Money, by G - - d.

    T. S. 1711.


_Written on the Looking-Glass of Mr. T - - p - - n,
  Fellow-Commoner of Trinity-College, Cambridge._

_Imago in Speculo loquitur ad T - - p - - n._

  I.

  Thou pretty little fluttering Thing,
    That mak’st this gaudy Shew;
  Thou senseless Mimick of a Man,
    Thou Being, call’d a Beau.


  II.

  Like me thou art an empty Form,
    Like me alone, thou’rt made;
  Like me delusive seem’st a Man,
    But only art a Shade.


_Tuns in Cambridge, Window facing a certain Alderman’s in the Market._

  Is _Molly Fr----_ immortal? ----No.
  She is; and I will prove her so.
  She’s fifteen now, and was, I know,
  Fifteen, full fifteen Years ago.


_Underwritten._

  The Fates from Heaven late came Post;
  And thus address’d this _Cambridge_ Toast.

  Say happy Maid that can detain
  Old hoary Time in fetter’d Chain,
  What wouldst thou have to set him free,
  And give thy captive Liberty?

    Miss _Molly_ call’d Mamma aside,
  ---- Whisper’d awhile, then thus reply’d;

    Upon my Life, all I would have
  From _Victor_ is to be a Slave;
  I’ll soon untie this Captive’s Hands;
  ---- Tie me but fast in _Hymen_’s Bands.


_On the Same on another Pane._

  At Home Miss _Molly_’s scarce fifteen.
    Mamma says she’s no more;
  But if the Parish-Book says true,
    Miss _Molly_’s thirty four.
            Poor Miss _Molly_!


_Wrote on Cor---- Cr----d’s (a Printer and Bookseller in Cambridge)
  Window in the Shop._

  Ye longing Sophs, say it who can,
  That _Corny_’s not a learned Man.
  He knows well each Edition, Sir,
  Of _Aldus_, and of _Elzevir_;
  Of _Beza_ he profoundly reasons,
  And talks jocose of _Harry Stephens_.
  Though (says a Wag) all this I grant,
  Yet _Corny_ sure must Learning want.
  How so? ----It’s plain, (if that we may
  B’lieve what Men of themselves do say,)
  For _Corny_’s openly* confess’d.
  He’s but a Blockhead at the best.

    * _Corny_, in Printing a _Latin_ Book, censur’d by the University,
    was forced to plead _Ignoramus_ to save his Bacon.


_Another in the Shop, on C----’s Title Page_

LEARNING.

  Within this learn’d Receptacle of Arts,
  _Corny_, if ask’d, on each can shew his Parts;
  Alike a _Newton_, or a _Ratcliffe_ prove;
  A _Coke_ in Law----an _Etheridge_ in Love.--
  Reason profound----in Hist’ry state each Fact,
  Teach† _London_ how to think, or _Walpole_ how to act.

    O say from whence should all this Learning come.----
  From whence?----from each dead Sage around the Room.

    If _Corny_ thence his Fund of Learning draws,
  How great his Skill in Politicks or Laws? ----
  How deeply read? ---- how vast his learned Store? ----
  ---- When ---- past the Title, all his Learning’s o’er.

    † Bishop.


_Another in the Same._

  Is _Corny_’s Learning much; my Friends;
  Since where it does begin, ---- it ends?


_From a Window in Ardenham-House, Hertfordshire._

  As glass obdurate no Impression takes,
  But what the radiant piercing Diamond makes;
  Just so my Heart all other Pow’rs defies,
  But those of fair _Venilla_’s brilliant Eyes.


_Written in a Lady’s Dressing Room._

  _Brunetta_, I grant you, can give her Swain Death;
  But ’tis not with her Eyes, but with her - - ill Breath.


_From a Window in the Inner Temple-Hall._

  Come hither, Barristers of Dress,
  That once your Lips may meet Success:
  From _Rufus_’ filthy Hall withdraw;
  Here only ye can live by Law.


_A Rebus on Lady of Quality, on a Glass at the Old Devil Tavern._

  What fly from her Eyes, and the Place whither I
  Must soon be convey’d to, unless she comply,
  Is the Name of the Beauty for whom I could die.

  _N. B._ Darts and _Shafts_ fly from her Eyes, and if one dies,
    one must be _bury_’d.


_Under the Rebus on Lady Sh - - - bury, at the Devil Tavern, is this;_

  What opens a Door, and a Word of Offence,
  Tell the Name of a Nymph of Wit, Beauty, and Sense.

  Supposed to be for Miss _Ke - ly_.


_From the Window of a Chamber in the Inner Temple._

  For dear _Venilla_ in my Arms,
  I’d scorn all other female Charms;
  Ten thousand Beauties she can spare,
  And still be _Fairest_ of the _Fair_.


_From innumerable Windows._

  Like _Mars_ I’ll fight, like _Antony_ I’ll love,
  I’ll drink like _Bacchus_, and I’ll whore like _Jove_.


_From the Apollo, the large Dancing-Room in the Devil Tavern, written
  when some were engaged in a particular Country-Dance._

  This Dance foretells that Couple’s Life,
  Who mean to dance as Man and Wife;
  As here, they’ll first with Vigour set,
  Give Hands, and turn whene’er they meet;
  But soon will quit their former Track,
  Cast off and end in Back to Back.


_From the Angel Tavern, Temple-Bar._

  ’Tis hard! ’tis wonderous hard!
    That the Life of a Man
    Should be but a Span,
  And that of a Woman a Yard!


_From a Watch-Maker’s Window, Fleet-Street._

  Here Time is bought and sold: ’Tis plain, my Friend,
  My Clocks and Watches shew what I intend;
        For you I Time correct,
        My Time I spend;
          By Time I live,
    But not one Inch will lend,
    Except you pay the ready down or send:
          I trust no Time,
    Unless the Times do mend.


_On a Watch-Case in a Gentleman’s Pocket, given him by a Lady._

  The Wretched pray to make more Haste,
  The Happy say we fly too fast;
  Therefore impossible to know,
  Whether I go too fast or slow.

    S. M.


_At Hollyhead, I suppose, written by some Creation-Mender._

  Arra, now what signifies the making the two great Lights?
  The Sun to light the Day, and the Moons to light the Nights:
  For the Sun in the Day-Time there is no Occasion,
  Because I can see very well after my Persuasion:
  But for the Moons, they are very good in a dark Night,
  Because when we cannot see they give us a Light.


_Crown at Harlow._

  Rail at your Father, rail at your Mother,
  Rail at your Sister, rail at your Brother,
  Rail on, my Boys, and rail at one another.

_Underwritten._

  Rail as you say, and you’ll be all railed in.


_Written upon the Wall of Clements-Inn, when the Dial was put up
  which is supported by a black Slave in a kneeling Posture._

  In vain poor sable Son of Woe,
    Thou seek’st a tender Ear;
  In vain thy Tears with Anguish flow,
    For Mercy dwells not here:
  From Cannibals thou fly’st in vain,
    Lawyers less Quarter give;
  The first won’t eat you till you’re slain,
    The last will do’t alive.


_Hampstead on a Window._

  I am a Dog ----
    In true Fidelity
  I am a Sun ----
    In faithful Constancy:
  I am a Stote, ----
    To please a lustful Lass;
  I am a Hog, ----
    And you may kiss my A----se.
  But if my _Celia_ comes within my Ken;
  Then I shall be again like other Men.


_On another at the same Place._

  My Wife says, Whither do you go?
  And I return, my dear, I do not know;
  Then d----n your Blood, says she, to use me thus;
  And then I call her catterwauling Puss.


_Hampton-Court, at the Mitre._

  A Ramp of very noted Name,
  I need not say, for all Men know her Fame,
  Lascivious, as the human Race could be,
  She could not see a Man, but fell in Extasy.


_On a dyer’s Sign at Southwark._

  I die to live,
  I live to die,
  And hope to live eternally.


_At the Star at Coventry._

  A poor Woman was ill in a dangerous Case,
  She lay in, and was just as some other Folks was:
  By the Lord, cries _She_ then, if my Husband e’er come,
  Once again with his Will for to tickle my Bum,
  I’ll storm, and I’ll swear, and I’ll run staring wild;
  And yet the next Night, the Man got her with Child.

    S. M. 1708.


_By Desire not to insert the Place._

  What care I for Mistress May’ress;
  She’s little as the Queen of Fairies:
  Her little Body like my Thumb,
  Is thicker far than _other some_;
  Her Conscience yet would stretch so wide; }
  Either on this, or t’other Side,          }
  That none could tell when they did ride.  }


_Underwritten._

  Swim for thy Life, dear Boy, for I can feel neither Bottom nor Sides.


_In Pencil upon a Wall in a Tavern near Covent-Garden._

  I become all Things to all Men, to gain some, or I must have starved.

    _Moll. Friskey._


_Star-Inn at Coventry._

  _Molly_ the gay, the black, the friskey,
  Would kiss like any wanton Gipsey;
  Nor was her Mouth alone the Case,
  A Man of Worth might kiss her A----se.


_At a Tavern at the Royal Exchange._

  I’ve now a Coach and Six before me,
  Each female court’sies to adore me:
  But from my dearest I can’t part,
  Without returning her my Heart:
  Tell her I am gone a Month or longer,
  While she may gain more Love, and I grow stronger.

    _S. M. Oct._ 17. 1720.


_From a Tavern in Fleet-Street._

  I’ll drink like _Bacchus_, and I’ll fight like _Mars_,
  The Kind I’ll love, the Cross may kiss my A - - se.


_In the same Room in a Woman’s Hand._

  Since cruel Fate has robb’d me of the Youth,
  For whom my Heart had hoarded all its Truth,
  I’ll ne’er love more, dispairing e’er to find,
  Such Constancy and Truth amongst Mankind.

    _Feb._ 18, 1725.

_Underwritten._

  I kiss’d her the next Night, and she’s one of the _Walkers_ Family.

    _Feb._ 18. 1725.


_Dublin in a Window in Castle-Street._

  O mortal Man that’s made of Clay,
  Is here to-Morrow, and is gone to Day.


_In a Bog-House at Hampstead._

  There’s Nothing foul that we commit,
  But what we write, and what we sh - - t.


_Three-Pigeons at Brentford._

  Wer’t not for _Whims_, Candles, and Carrots
  Young Fellows Things might ride in Chariots.

    _Tom Long, July_ 17.

_Underwritten._

  Heaven for all those Helps to Nature,
  Or else poor P---- could get no Quarter.


_Letter on a Window at Stony-Stratford, to Miss Mary V - - d - - le._

  We shall B in better Q,
  When U have I, and I have U.

    T. M. 1720


_From a Window in Hell, near Westminster-Hall._

  Old _Orpheus_ tickled his Harp so well,
  That he tickled _Eurydice_ out of Hell,
      With a Twing come Twang, and a Twing come Twang; but,
  Some say _Euridice_ was a Scold
  Therefore the Devil of her took hold,
      With a Twing come Twang, &c.

    S. S. 1714.


_Underwritten._

  If my Wife had been e’er in the Devil’s Hands,  }
  You know it would loose all other Bands,        }
  And I should been pleased with House and Lands. }

    F. R. 1718.


PREFACE.

_From a Paper found in the Street at Twelve at Night, 1708. near
  Covent-Garden. Argument concerning a Greek Opera that was to have
  been set on Foot, when People liked to see and hear Operas first
  in Italian._

As Languages are introduced among us Christian People daily that we
do not understand, by Way of _Italian_ Opera, _&c._ why may we not
entertain the Publick with a little _Greek_, as natural as Pigs
squeak.--

  _And for _Latin_, ’tis no more dificile,
  Than for a Blackbird ’tis to whistle._    Hud.

I love dearly to quote my Authors.

I have been with both the Play-Houses, and one says d----n it, it won’t
do; and t’other says, Z----ds it will not take; then says I to myself,
I’ll have a _Greek_ Opera, by G - - d; and with this Resolution I set
about it, and made a Specimen, and so went with it in a Chair to the
Opera-House, to give it the better Grace. But that would not do neither;
for one did not understand _Greek_; nor t’other did not understand
_Greek_; and _Italian_ was all in Vogue: And I did not understand that;
and so we could make no Bargain, and I returned Home.

Z----ds, thinks I, if I don’t understand their barbarous Language, must
I let them have any Thing of my ancient Language? No, Messieurs! I’ll
let my Opera remain in its Infancy, and you shall curse yourselves
before you have it compleat; but that you shall know what Fools you have
been, I’ll stick a Needle through my Nose, that you may look sharp; and
then you will say, why did not US take it, for in the first Scene I saw
all the Audience laugh. But to the Point, _i.e._ the second Preamble or
Argument,


OPERA.

Scene is the City of _Athens_, and an old Woman lives in a hollow Tree,
where she sells Gin and Gingerbread to the Grenadiers; her Name is
Gammer _Hocus_. Then there comes a Goddess, who sells Butter and Eggs at
_Athens_ Market, upon her Uncle’s bald Mare; and as the Mare is a
stumbling Jade, so she falls down before _Hocus_’s Tree, and hurts her
Rump, and then we begin.

_N. B._ When the Goddess _Cinderaxan_ falls down before Gammer _Hocus_’s
Door, or Tree, she begins in _Ricitativo_----_Greek_ Fashion.

  _O! mega mar, hocus the baldmare has cantedme ontoss;
  * Phillàdram sukami, some Spirit offerme to suckon.
  Dear _Hokey_ behasty, forbum sufferssore by a Thumpon’t;
  No baldmare my Gammon shall contuseagain by one moretoss._

    * Fill.

_English’d_ thus for the Benefit of the Ladies, though ’tis much the
same in the _Greek_.

  _O my Gammer _Hocus_, the bald Mare has canted me one Toss;
  Fill a Dram, sick am I, some Spirit offer me to suck on.
  Dear _Hokey_ be hasty, for Bum suffers sore by a Thump on’t.
  No bald Mare my Gammon shall contuse again by one more Toss._

Then out comes Gammer _Hocus_, when the Goddess had called for a Dram in
the second Line, and sings with an Air, seeing her Goddessship as dirty
as the Devil.

  __Cinderaxan_’s sablehew’d Aspect,----
  Fulloffun, though the Doxey can seemcoy._

And here we leave off. Is not the Devil in the People, that they will
not encourage a good Thing, when they have it before them.


_Crown at Uxbridge,_ 1708.

_An Acrostick upon something or other._

  Commodious for a Haven made,
    Under a rising Bank,
  Nature has fix’d a Place of Trade,
    To Men of any Rank.

_Underwritten._

  Riddle my ree, _&c._
  And read the four first Letters, and you’ll see.

    _R. M._

_A Man hanging for Love, drawn when Painting was in its Cradle, with his
  Dog barking at him, _viva voce_. From the three Pigeons at Brentford._

  [Illustration]

The Occasion of this dangling Story, was from a Lady who hated him, and
set him about it.

  Go hang thyself, quoth cruel She,
    Go hang thyself I say.
  The Man obey’d her presently,
    And made himself away.    _Mary Worthless._

The Criticks do not make out whether he _walk’d_ off, or _went_ off,
neither does the Figure determine which.

  Hang me, if I will _hang_ for any Woman,
  For most of them alike are very common;
  I’d sooner trudge as I have done before,
  Than hang upon a d----d confounded Whore.

_Underwritten._

  No Matter if the Man is longer than the Gallows,
  He smokes and drinks his Glass like honest Fellows.


_Upon a Drinking-Glass at Charing-Cross._

  _Nanny Sach----l_ is all my Toast;
  She’s all I wish for, and is all my Boast.


_Egham, at the Red Lion._

  Help me, ye Pow’rs, to sing my _Sylvia_’s Praise;
  Nor _P - - pe_ nor _Sw - - ft_ can do it now a-days.
  But you, nor I, or them, can ever boast,    }
  There ever was in _Europe_ such a Toast;    }
  All we can say, is, _Lucy_ rules the Roast. }


_At a Place not to be recorded._

  A d - - - d confounded Bitch,
  Ugly and cunning as a Witch.
  Her Bill shall be preferr’d by Law;
  The House we wish we’d never saw.
      One Pound five and ten Pence;
      Grant her Repentance;
      We’ll never come here again;
      And let her alone remain.

          J. S.
          R. S. 17 July.
          1722. very truly.


  I do not complain of my _Phillis_,
  Because I know what her proud Will is;
      For I know how she’ll rant,
      And I know what I want;
      G - - d d - - - n her old Aunt;
  I stand here, and wait for her, THAT _still is_.


_On a beautiful Sempstress, in a Window at Charing-Cross._

  _Dolly_, with Beauty and Art,
  Has so hemm’d in my Heart,
  That I cannot resist the Charm.
    In Revenge I will stitch
    Up the Hole near her Breach,
  With a Needle as long as my Arm.

    R.


_Two Girls at a Bar, that would do’t, and one Gentleman would
  chatter too long._

  What the Devil should we meddle
  With diddle daddle, fiddle faddle;
  We shall lose the Girls that please;
  Go to Bed, and take your Ease.

    M. C. to his Friend.

_Underwritten._

  I know they’ll ease you both, for I have been aboard of them.

    R. C.

  I shall tell best at the next Meeting:
  The Proof of the Pudding is in the eating.


_Blue Posts, Charing-Cross._

  Use me friendly, use me kind;
    I’ll be the kindest of my Sex;
  I’ll love, be constant, and you’ll find,
    I’ll be your own in _Middlesex_.

    _Molly Sh----r._

_Underwritten._

  Take care you keep her Country to yourself.

    M. L.


_Red Lion at Egham._

  I _watch_ and _pray_ for dearest _Nancy_,
  Because I always love her Fancy;
      But then there comes,
      Like Bailiff Bums,
  The _Watch_ with Lights we _can see_;
      And then she’ll pray,
      And I must pay,
  And retreat as clean as a Tansey.

_Underwritten._

  For Money one may whore,
  And I’ll say no more.----

    R. T.


_At the same Place._

  I am a young Thing, just come from my Mammy.

    S. L.

_Underwritten_

  Then you want to be kiss’d, G - - d d - - - n ye.

    Captain R. T.


_Bull-and-Mouth-Street._

  If Virtue rules the Minds of Women,
  They’ll never let you touch their Linnen;
  But if they are not Virtue Proof,
  Then you may kiss them oft enough.


_Uxbridge, at the Crown._

  _Molley_ came up to Town precise,
  Demure, yet fire in her Eyes;
  So did she look confounded civil;
  With Grace and Beauty like a Devil;
  But soon her Eyes drew in some Hearts,       }
  And some _Things else_ like _Cupid_’s Darts, }
  Which gave her Pains, and many Smarts.       }

_Underwritten._

  Thou Puppy, ----
  The Fire of her Eyes occasioned the Flame of her Heart,
  And drew the Fire to her lower Part.

    _R. L._


_From the same Place._

  After a tedious Journey, and my Supper,
  And dam----d uneasy with my Crupper,
  _Jenney_ came up to warm my Bed, }
  A pretty Girl; but I was dead,   }
  Or else I’d had her Maidenhead.  }

    _R. T._


_Swan at Uxbridge._

  Who’s been here,
  The Devil I fear;
  For he’s left the Bottles clear.

    _R. Est----n_, 1710.

_Underwritten._

  ’Twas so; for nothing so like the Devil as an empty Bottle.

    _G. S._ 1711.


_Boghouse at Uxbridge._

  If a Man should breathe backwards, and happens to stink,
  You may say, if you will, it is natural _Instinct_.

_Underwritten._

You may quibble upon the Word _Instinct_, if you will; but I think ’tis
better out than in, considering the Case.

    _I. M._ of _Oxon._


_Betty Careless, her Prayers: From her Chambers in Drury-Lane, on a
  Wall, written with a Piece of Charcoal._

  Grant us good lusty Men, ye gracious Pow’rs!
  Or else stop up those craving Things of ours!


_From the Plough Ale-House in Fore-Street, near Cripplegate, written
  upon a Wall._

  Good Bread and Meat, strong Beer withal,
    Will make a T    d more lasting;
  Therefore I think he is a Fool,
    That goes out in a Morning fasting.

    _Tom. Rudge._

We suppose he wants to eternize his Memory by eating a Breakfast.

  When I lay with my bouncing _Nell_,
  I gave her an Inch, and she took an Ell:
  But I think in this Case it was damnable hard,
  When I gave her an Inch, she’d want more than a Yard.


_Hampstead, at the Flask._

Nothing so certain as the Uncertainties of this Life, _says one of the
Greek Philosophers_.


_Hoxton, on a Wall._

  What Difference between Kings T - - - ds and mine?
  One may be costive, one be full of Slime;
  Yet equally will any Hog that feeds,
  Produce good Pork by feeding on our Needs.

_Underwritten._

  You nasty Dog, you may eat your Pork yourself.


_Hampstead, at the Flask._

  Tell me why, ye gen’rous Swains?
  Tell me, ye Nymphs upon the Plains?
  Why does _Sylvia_ leave the Green?
  Has she done any Thing obscene?
  They all reply’d, Your _Sylvia_’s gone;
  For she will do’t with ev’ry one.


_From the Red Lyon at Egham._

  She that thinks upon her Honour,
  Needs no other Guard upon her.

_Underwritten._

  She that has a Man upon her,
  Never thinks upon her Honour.


_In Trinity College Boghouse, Dublin._

  You who instead of Fodder, Fingers use,
  Pray lick ’em clean, and don’t this Wall abuse.

_Under which is written;_

  These House-of-Office Poets, by the L - - - d,
  Instead of Laurel, should be crown’d with T - - - d.


_In a Window, at the Sign of the Four Crosses, on the Road to West
  Chester._

  Host! wou’d you paint your Crosses to the Life,
  Pull down your Sign, and then hang up your Wife.


_On A Window at Canbury-House._

  The Breast of ev’ry _British_ Fair,
    Like this bright, brittle, slippery Glass,
  A Diamond makes Impression there,
    Though on the Finger of an Ass.


_On a Person of Quality’s Boghouse._

  Good Lord! who could think,
  That such fine Folks should stink?


_On a Window at Bushy-Hall, Hertfordshire._

  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 Glass at the Devil Tavern, Temple-Bar._

  The stubborn Glass 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 Passage._

  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_.

  Glass 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 Coxcomb’s Pencil.


_Written in a Window at a private House, by a desponding Lover in the
  Presence of his Mistress._

  This Glass, 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 Glass,
  Can’t prove me brittle, it proves you an Ass.


_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

          Glass-Window and Bog-House

                  MISCELLANY.

                  Taken from

  The Original Manuscripts 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-Glasses 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._

        Bethlehem-Wall, Moor-Fields.


PART III.

    _LONDON_:

  Printed for J. ROBERTS in _Warwick-Lane_; and Sold by
    the Booksellers in Town and Country. [Price 6 _d._]




THE

PREFACE.


This is purposely to acknowledge the Obligations I owe to several
Gentlemen, who have shewn their Esteem of the MERRY THOUGHT, in the
large Collections they have communicated before the Holidays: For who
knows, but many of their Pieces might have been lost, by the Effects of
Wine, Punch, and strong Beer, in the _Christmas_ Time; or by a Game at
Ramps, or Blind-Man’s-Buff; or unlucky Boys; or the sticking the Windows
with Holley and Ivy: All these Hazards did we run of having many curious
Pieces destroy’d, and bury’d in Oblivion. And then again, the Cleaning
the Windows against the Holidays might have endanger’d the Loss of many
of these brittle Leaves of Wit and Learning. But now, we may sing _Old
Rose_, since a large Cargoe is already arriv’d safe at the Press. In
order for a third Part, I have myself taken Care to visit most of the
Glasiers in Town where I just came Time enough to save some few Scraps
of Wit; and have bribed a great Number of Football-Players, not to use
that Diversion near some particular Places about this Great City, where
many curious Epigrams, Sonnets, and Whims, are at present uncopy’d; and
if they should escape a few Days longer, will make a fourth Volume, with
the kind Assistance of those Correspondents who have sent me promissory
Notes for the Delivery of certain Parcels of such Wit, on or about the
Twenty-fifth of this Instant _January_. I remain, Gentlemen, after
hoping you are in good Health, as I am at this present Writing, and
wishing you all many happy Years,

  _Your obliged humble Servant,_

    HURLO THRUMBO.




THE

MERRY-THOUGHT.

PART III.

Mr. _BOG_,

The following _Miscellanea Curiosa_ you may either insert in your third
Part, or use them for your latter Part; which you please.


_From a Window at the Angel in Marlborough._

  _W----s_ lay at the _Angel_ in _Marlborough_ Town,
    And an Angel lay with him all Night:
  He tipp’d her an Angel before she lay down,
    Which you know was but decent and right.
  But an Angel of Darkness she prov’d to be sure;
  For scarce twenty Angels would pay for his Cure.


_Written on the Wall at the George in Sandy-Lane, in the Bath Road,
  a Place famous for Puddings._

  The Puddings are so good in _Sandy-Lane_,
  That if I chance to go that Way again,
  I’ll not be satisfy’d, unless I’ve twain,
  The one stuck thick with Plumbs, the other plain.


_At the Sun-Tavern at Billingsgate, written on the Wainscot._

  Upon the Ground he spread his Cloak;
    The Nymph she was not shy, Sir;
  And there they fairly did the Joke,
    Whilst through this Crack peep’d I, Sir.

    _Oct._ 27, 1722.

_Underwritten._

  Mr. Pimp, had I known your Worship was there,
    Which I no more dreamt of, than sleeping,
  When once I’d dispatch’d my Affair with the Fair,
    By G----d, you’d paid dear for your Peeping.

    _Dec._ 1722.


_At the Red-Lion, Shrewsbury._

  The Drawer, _Tom_, has scarce forgot,
    Since I was here last _Easter_;
  I broke his Head with the Pewter Pot,
    And gave him not a Teaster.
  But why, d’ye think, I serv’d him so?
    What Flesh alive could bear it?
  I’d call’d a dozen Times, I trow,
    Yet the Dog would bring no Claret.
  This Discipline was not in vain,
    For h’as his Manners mended;
  I’ve been here twenty Times since then,
    And always well attended.


_From a Window in Carlisle, the Sign forgot._

  How says the Proverb, can it e’er be thought,
  What’s bred i’th’ Bone can out o’the Flesh be brought:
  Her Mother kiss’d with every one, and _Moll_ does plainly shew her;
  For _Molly_ kind is kiss’d by none, but only all that know her.

    I. S. 1718.


_From another Pane in the same Place._

  As dear _N----y B----k_ look’d into the Street,
    From this Window where now I am musing,
  I poop’d her behind, but no Body see’t,
    And she prov’d ne’er the worse for my using.

    T. B.

_Underwritten._

  Ungrateful Wretch, thou’rt scarcely fit to live,
  Much less such Favours worthy to receive.
  A greater Curse than leading Apes in Hell,
  The Fool deserves, that dares to kiss and tell.


_On the next Pane._

  Dear Madam, pray dont let your Anger abound,
    For Faith what you’ve wrote has no Charm in’t;
  You often have try’d me, and know I am sound,
    Then prithee now where was the Harm in’t?
  You did me a favour, I did you one too,
    And, if I’m not mistaken, a greater;
  I’ll swear I can’t love the Sport better than you,
    So pray say no more of the Matter.


_In a Bog-House, at the Bush at Carlisle_, 1718.

    Reader,

  Within this Place two Ways I’ve been delighted;
  For here I’ve s----, and likewise here have sh----d.
  They both are healthful, Nature’s Ease require ’em
  And though you grin, I fancy you desire ’em.

_Underwritten._

  What Beast alive, could bear to s----
    In such a filthy Hole as this is;
  The nauseous Stink, might, one would think,
    Disturb his Taste for amorous Kisses.

_Underwritten._

  This was wrote by some Beau, the Fop you may know,
    His squeamish Exception would make one believe it;
  Though the Smell where we sh----t, is not grateful a Bit,
    Yet I ne’er knew a C----y that favour’d of Civet.


_Oxon, on a Window._

  Knowledge, thou Darling of the Soul,
  Be thou my Help-Mate o’er a flowing Bowl;
  Then will my Time slide easily along,
  And ev’ry gen’rous Mortal grace our Song.

_Underwritten._

D----n your Knowledge, says Captain _Blunt_, swear, drink, and smoke,
and you’re an honest Fellow.

    _Feb._ 13, 1720.


_At the Devices, Wiltshire._

  _Peggy_ came in with a smiling Face,
  And every Feature had its Grace:
  Her Cheeks were blooming, as I’d wish to see; }
  Her something else above her Knee,            }
  Fill’d all my Mind with Extasy;               }
  And so we went to’t.

    L. T.


_Bath, on Harrison’s Windows._

  I kiss’d her standing,
    Kiss’d her lying,
  Kiss’d her in Health,
    And kiss’d her dying;
  And when she mounts _the Skies_,
    I’ll kiss her flying.


_Underwritten._

  Well said, my Boy.

    R. S.


_Witney, on a Window._

  Debauch’d by _Henry Rig_,
  Who gave me a Jigg,
  But not one Grigg:
  Howe’er he ran his Rigg.
  But if ever I touch a Man again,
  Unless in Matrimonial Chain,
  I’ll rather suffer craving Pain,
  I think; ----
  ---- Or take it once again.
  For t’has set me a longing.

    _Anne S----te._


_At the same Place._

  Give me the Lass who has a Taste of Love;
  She I will kiss luxuriously, by _Jove_;
  But when I meet a Woman’s cold Embrace,
  She baulks my Love; and she may kiss my A - - se.


_Oxon, Merton-College, on a Window._

  Bright is my _Silvia_, when she’s drest;
    When naked, cloath’d with wond’rous Charms:
  Her Mein has oft my Heart opprest; }
  Her Nakedness I have possest;      }
  And by the last I am distrest,     }
    By the Embraces of her Arms.
  What can we Mortals say of Love?
  Why? ’Tis the Pleasure of the Gods above:
  But then, if Cl - ps proceed from Love,
  How hot are all the Gods and Goddesses above!
  A fine Reward, for Love for Love!

_Underwritten._

  Avoid the Thunder-Cl - ps, and After-Cl - ps, says _Jove_.


_A young Lady, who hang’d herself, left the following Lines upon the
  Table._

  O Death! thou pleasing End of human Woe!
  Thou Cure of Life, thou best of Things below!
  May’st thou for ever shun the Coward Slave,
  And thy soft Slumbers only ease the Brave!


_At the Bull-Inn, at Ware._

_On Miss J----s._

  My Good or Ill in her alone is found,
  And in that Thought all other Cares are drown’d.

    _R. G----ll._


_Woodstock, in a Window._

  Have you not in a Chimney seen
  A sullen Faggot, wet and green,
  How coyly it receives the Heat,
  And at both Ends doth fume and sweat;
  So fares it with the harmless Maid
  When first upon her Back she’s laid.
    But the kind experienc’d Dame
  Cracks and rejoices in the Flame.


_Merton-College, Oxon, in a Window._

_A new Reading about the three Children in the Fiery Furnace. From the
  Hebrew._

  _Shadrack_, _Mashac_, and _Abednego_:
  If _Shadrac_ had a Fever and Ague,

      Then read in _English_,

  _Shadrack may shake, and a bed may go._

      R. F.


_Star, at Coventry._

      What Lacing,
      What Dressing,
      What Moulding,
      What Scolding,
      What Painting,
      What Fainting,
      What Loving,
      What Shoving,
      What Cooing,
      What Wooing,
      What Crosses,
      What Tosses,
      What Actions,
      What Fractions,
  Before the Day was done.


_Salisbury, on a Window._

    My Dear, like a Candle,
    Lights every one’s Handle,
  Yet loses no Bit of her own:
    She will piss, and she’ll kiss
    Until every one hiss,
  And she better had stay’d at Home.

As she lost nothing by it, she may still remain a Light to the World.


_Anagram._

  A Toast is like a Sot,
    Or what is most
  Comparable ---- a Sot,
    ---- Is like a Toast;
  For When their Substance
    In the Liquor sink,
  Both properly are said
    To be in Drink.


_Christ-Church, Oxon, in the Bog-House._

  Calami hujus Etatis
  Sunt hujus Etatis calamitates.


_Calais, at the Silver Lion._

  At the Foot of a Bed where a Woman lay dying,
    A Parcel of Gossips in Council were sat;
  And instead of good Prayers, condoling and crying,
    A _Thing_ was the Subject of all the Debate.
  One wish’d for a thick one, and swore ’twas the best,
    Altho’ ’twere as short to the full as her Snout;
  But a small One procur’d the Applause of the rest,
    Provided in Length the Defect were made out.
  Hold, quoth the sick Sister, you are all in the Wrong,
    So I’ll in a Case of this Weight to decide,
  Heav’n send me at once both the Thick and the Long;
    So closing her pious Petition, she dy’d.


_Written on the pillory in a certain Market-Town in Shropshire; on two
  Millers, named Bone and Skin, who exacted extravagant Toll._

    Bone and Skin,
    Two Millers thin,
  Would grind this Town and Places near it:
    But be it known
    To Skin and Bone,
  That Flesh and Blood won’t bear it.


_Richmond, Yorkshire, on a Window._

  If Death doth come as soon as Breath departs;
  Then he must often die, who often farts:
  And if to die be but to lose one’s Breath;
  Then Death’s a Fart, and so a Fart for Death.


_The Motto upon a Sign of a Gardiner’s Window, who kept a Publick House
  in the Road to Cambridge; inserted for the Benefit of bad Spellers._

  Heer is good Liker
  Ov awl Quinds toby sould,
  And sevile Yewzitch.

The Learned have examin’d the above Inscription: Some took it for
Gibberish; others for _Welch_; and some for one of the Eastern
Languages; but a Gentlewoman of extraordinary Knowledge in this
cramp Way of Writing, tells us, it must be read thus, in _English_:

  Here is good Liquor
  Of all Kinds to be sold,
  And civil Usage.

And so we believe it was meant; for it is allow’d by all, that some few
of the fair Sex can explain bad Sense and bad Spelling, even better than
most of the Heads of the Universities.


_Oxford, in a Window at Christ-Church._

  Anger may glance into the Breast of wise Men:
    But it rests in the Bosom of Fools.


_From the Same Place._

  True Friendship multiplies our Joys;
  It mends our Griefs, and makes them light as Toys.


_From Queen’s-College, Oxon._

  All that we know of what is done above,
  Is, that the Blessed sing, and that they love.


_Rue de Boucharie._

  Amasser en Saison,
  Dispenser par Raison,
  Et vous aurez une bonne Maison.


_In a Window at an Inn on the West Country Road._

  The Cook, confound her, boil’d no Roots;
  The Hostler never clean’d my Boots;
  The Tapster too, would hardly stir;
  The Drawer was a lazy Cur;
  The Chamberlain had made no Bed;
  The Host had Maggots in his Head:
  But _Millicent_, who kept the Bar,  }
  Was worse than all the rest by far; }
  She was as many others are.         }
  I kiss’d her till she had her Fill,
  I thought it Love, and with her Will. }
  But then ---- ---- ----               }
  She made a da----n’d confounded Bill. }

    Captain R. T. 1718.


_Underwritten._

See the Bill Gentlemen.

  Thrice was I reckon’d for my Meat;
  Thrice was I reckon’d for Miss _Milly_’s treat;
  Thrice was I reckon’d for my dirty Boots;
  Thrice was I reckon’d for not having Roots;
  Thrice was I reckon’d by the lazy Fellows;
  And thrice I swore, I wish’d them at the Gallows;
    And if I come here any more,
    Then call me a Son of a Whore.

    R. T. 1718.


_Rue D’Auphine, at Paris._

  O Quelle Grand Traison!
  Les Couillions que je porte
  Lors que leur Maître est en prison
  Ces Gallans d’ausant a la porte.

N. B. _This is not render’d into _English_, but ’tis Ingratitude enough
for two Servants, that have been well entertained a long while by their
Master, should dance about a Prison Door, while their Master is in it._


_On a Window at the Ram, Newmarket._

  Come hither, dearest, sweetest Turtle-Dove;
  You are my Goddess.--You alone I love.
  At Night, whene’er I close my Eyes to Rest,
  I dream of laying in your snow-white Breast.
  But oft oppress’d with Grief and pensive Care,
  I to enjoy such Happiness despair.
  O wretched me! Celestial Pow’rs above!
  O mighty Jove! what must I die for Love!
  If you’re inclin’d to cure the Wound you gave,
  Come quick, relieve, and save me from the Grave.

_Her Answer._

  Unhappy Youth, pray trouble not your Mind,
  By mighty _Jove_, I swear I will be kind.
  I swear by _Venus_, and the Pow’rs above;             }
  By _Cupid_’s Darts, and all the Joys of Love,         }
  To thee my Youth, my Swain, I’ll ever constant prove. }


_Bog-House at Epsom-Wells._

  Privies are now Receptacles of Wit,          }
  And every Fool that hither comes to sh----t, }
  Affects to write what other Fools have writ. }


_Rain-Deer, Bishop-Stafford._

  Hail charming Maid! hail my enchanting Fair,
  Thy Beauty’s such, what Mortal can forbear?
  Have Pity on a Youth’s despairing Cries,
  Compassion shew, or else your Lover dies.
  O that I but one good Enjoyment had!
  Grant it me soon, or else I shall go mad.


_Her Answer._

  Alas! poor Youth, if you go mad for Love,
  Seek your Relief from mighty _Jove_ above.
  No Cure I have, my Body’s chaste and pure;
  A wandering Youth I never can endure.


_Pancras-Wells._

  I have had a Cl - p,
  By a sad Mishap;
  But the Doctor has cur’d it,
  And I’ve endur’d it.
  The B - ch that gave it me,
  She is gone over Sea.
  G - d d - n her A - se,
  That fir’d my T - se.


_Peacock, Northampton._

  I love dear _Betty_, and _Betty_ loves me;
  And it shall not be long before marry’d we be.

_Underwritten._

  If you must make a Rhime upon your Lass,
  I’ll make another----Rhimer kiss my A - se.


_Boar’s-Head, Smithfield._

  D - n their Doublets, and confound their Breeches,
  There’s none besh - t the Wall but Sons of B - ches.
  May the _French_ P - - x, and the D - - vil take ’em all,
  That besh - t their Fingers, and wipe them on the Wall.


_Lambeth-Wells Bog-House._

_Supposed to be wrote by one who had a great Antipathy to Tobacco._

  This is a Place that’s very fitting,
  To p - - ss, and f - - rt, to smoke, and sh - - t in.


_From a Window in a Great House in Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields._

  A good Wife is like a Turtle that bills and cooes, and turns up her
    T----l to her Husband.


_Kings-Head, Beaconsfield._

  In Spring the Fields, in Autumn Hills, I love;
  At Morn the Plains, at Noon the shady Grove;
  But _Delia_ always, forc’d from _Delia_’s Sight,
  Nor Fields, nor Hills, nor Plains, nor Groves delight.


_At the same Place, 1731._

  Love in Fashion, is Copulation.

    _Le H----p._


_At the same Place._

  The Brave and Wise would never hug
  The chearful Bottle and the Jug,
  Were not good Liquor in its Season,
  An useful Spur to human Reason.

    _Probatum est_, W. T.


_At Rumford, in a Window._

  There’s Nothing sure can vex a Woman more
  Than to hear the Feats of Love, and be Threescore.


_Written on a Looking-Glass, in the Rue Boucharie, Paris._

  Le Mond est plein de fous, & qui n’en veut point voir,
  Doit demeurer tout seul, & casser son meroir.

  The World is full of Fools and Asses,
  To see them not---- retire and break your Glasses.


_Oxon, in a Bog-House._

      With such violent Rage,
      Sir _John_ did engage
  With the Damsel which he laid his Leg on,
      That his Squire, who stood near,
      Swore it look’d like the Spear
  Of St. _George_ in the Mouth of the Dragon.


_On a Drinking-Glass._

  Guard well your Credit, for ’tis quickly gone:
  ’Tis gain’d by many Actions, lost by one.


_At York, in a Window._

  When Mr. _H----_ was chosen Mayor,    }
  We thought our Peace stood very fair, }
  And hollow’d when he took the Chair.  }
  But see how Mortals may prove civil,                }
  They change their State from Good to Evil:          }
  Set a Beggar on Horseback, he’ll ride to the Devil. }
        And so it prov’d.


_From a Window in Yorkshire._

  Sir ---- was chosen our Recorder,
  Hoping he’d put our Wrongs in Order:
  But, in Truth, the young Gentleman prov’d such a Rake,
  That he kiss’d all our Wives, and made all our Heads ake.


_Uxbridge, the Crown._

  _Puns_ have two evil Ends:
  Sometimes they gain us Foes,
  Sometimes they make us lose
                    our Friends.


_At Epping, in a Window._

  What care I, to acknowledge my Lord was my Father?   }
  To inherit his Fortune and Weakness together;        }
  If a Porter had got me with Health, I’d much rather. }


_Rebus on Miss Jane Mar-tin._

  To _spoil_ the _Cornish Ore_,
  Names the Nymph that I adore.


_Rebus on Miss Bell-a-dine._

  What in a Steeple bears a Sound?
  What in the Horn-Book first is found;
  And eat the Meal of glorious Noon;
  Give me, Great _Jove_, this Lady soon,
  Whose Name the first three Lines explain:
  Her Love’s my Life, my Death is her Disdain.


_On Miss Hatt-on._

  The Pride of Quaker _John_
  Names the Nymph I dote upon.


_Miss Willson._

  What e’er a Woman wishes most,           }
  And that which marry’d People boast,     }
  Speaks the dear Charmer, who’s my Toast. }


_Miss Hutch-in-son._

  The Place were Rabbits are confin’d,
    The Place where Strangers are refresh’d;
  And what best pleas’d my Mother’s Mind,
    Tells you the Charmer of my Breast.


_Miss Shuttle-worth._

  What a Weaver will toss about all the Day long,      }
  And a Value, whose Praise can’t be nam’d in my Song, }
  Tells the Name of my Charmer who’s witty and young.  }


_Miss Weathers._

  Tell me her Name, whose Looks serene
  Shew her a Goddess, or a Queen;
  Who, if in turbulent Disguise,     }
  Will make you shudder at her Eyes: }
  For _her_, all others I despise.   }


_Rebus on Miss Sukey Dart._

  Her Name has pierc’d my Heart,     }
  And so we’ll never part;           }
  With her I ne’er can feel a Smart. }


_Crown at Harlow._

  Death and Marriage are by Destiny,
  And both these Things become a Maiden’s Fee.
  Whether they die between a Pair of Sheets,
  Or live to marry, they will lose their Wits;
  So is it destin’d by the Gods above,
  They’ll live and die by what _they_ love.

    R. T. 1721.


_York, on a Window._

  What signifies your chattering, dearest _Nancy_,
  And swearing d - n your Blood, to please your Fancy;
  For if your Scruples find that one won’t do,
  Z----ds, cock, and prime, and then take two.

    Captain J. F. 1729.


_Uxbridge_, 1719.

  Various Religions, several Tenets hold;
  Yet all one God acknowledge, which is _Gold_.


_Chester, in a Window_, 1726.

  A Fox was drawn in for Cakes and Ale,
  And by a fly Stratagem lost his Tail.
  ’Tis no Matter, says _Reynard_, by Dint of Persuasion, }
  I’ll make all my Brethren believe ’tis the Fashion,    }
  Though at the same Time, he was in a d----d Passion.   }


_Underwritten._

  ----Although they all come in,
  There’s none can laugh, but those that win.
  New Fashions are Gins that I mortally hate;
  I’ll keep my old Fashion, and keep my Estate.
          No coaxing, no wheedling, good Mr. Fox.
                                 _Recruiting Officer._

  Getting is a Chance; but keeping is a Virtue.


_Devil-Tavern_, 1721.

  Whene’er a Man has gain’d his Ends,
  He is encompass’d by his Friends;
  But when that Man has lost his All,
  And wants his Friends, he’as none at all.

  In gay Prosperity we see,          }
  That ev’ry one will bend the Knee, }
  And treat you with their Flattery; }
  But in a contrary State,         }
  When Gaiety’s destroy’d by Fate, }
  The Man they lov’d before,       }
  ---------------- They hate.      }


_In a Bog-House over the Water, at the Spread-Eagle in Bunny in
  Nottinghamshire._

  The nicest Maid, with the whitest Rump,
  May sit and sh----te, and hear it plump.


_On a Glass Window in the same Place._

  For what did _Venus_ love _Adonis_,
  But for the Gristle, where no Bone is?


_In a Bog-House at the Nag’s-Head in Bradmere._

  The greatest Monarch, when a fighting,
  Looks not so great as I, when sh----ting.


_In the same Place._

      Such Places as these,
      Were made for the Ease
    Of every Fellow in common;
      But a Person who writes
      On the Wall as he sh----tes,
    Has a Pleasure far greater than Woman.
  For he’s eas’d in his Body, and pleas’d in his Mind,
  When he leaves both a T----d and some Verses behind.

_Underwritten._

  You are eas’d in your Body, and pleas’d in your Mind,
  That you leave both a T----d and some Verses behind;
  But to me, which is worst, I can’t tell, on my Word,
  The reading your Verses, or smelling your T----d.


_From a Church Door._

_On an Eminent Physician’s being called out of Church._

  Whilst holy Prayers to Heaven were made,
    One soon was heard, and answer’d too,
  _Save us from sudden Death_, was said,
    And strait from Church Sir _H----_ withdrew.


_From the Four Swans at Uxbridge._

  There’s none but the Vicious, or the Base,
  That false Reports can trouble or disgrace:
  The virtuous Man must ever stand secure
  ’Gainst all the Lies which Falsehood can procure:
  For a sound Mind or Conscience gives a Peace,
  Which to Eternity can never cease.

    _E. K._


_Underwritten._

D----n your conscientious Rascals; there’s so few of them in this Age,
that a Man appears singular who is govern’d thereby.

    Capt. _T. R._ 1730.


_Rumford, on a Window._

  How shall the Man e’er turn to dust
  Who daily wets his Clay.

_Underwritten._

  In Dust he may fly       }
  As Fools gallop by,      }
  And no body can say Nay. }


_The galloping Song, from Newmarket, in the Compass of the Flute._

[Illustration: Music]

  Buxom _Joan_ got on a bald Mare;
  she rid ramping on to The Fair,
    with a Whip and Spur.
  Such jogging, such flogging,
  Such splashing, such dashing,
    was ne’er seen there.
  Jolly _Tom_, cry’d out as she Come,
  thou Monkey Face, Punkey Face,
    lousey Face, Frouzey Face,
  hold thy Hand, Make a Stand,
    thou’lt be down.
  No Sooner _Tom._ spoke, but Down comes _Joan_,
  with her Head and Bum up and down,
  So that her A----se was shown.
  Bald Mare ran galloping all the Way home.


_Temple, in a Gentleman’s Chambers._

  When _Phillis_ wore her brightest Face,
  All Men rejoic’d in every Grace:
  Her Patch, her Mein, her Forward Chin,
  Cry’d, Gentlemen, Pray who’ll come in:
  But now her Wrinkles are come on her, }
  All Men who ever were upon her,       }
  Cry out, a Fart upon her Honour.      }

    _C. M._


_On a Wall, at a School in Norwich. In Dog Latin._

  _J. Jackson_ currit _plenum sed_
  Et læsit meum _magnum ad_.

    _R. L._

_The English Translation, Word for Word._

  _J. Jackson_ run _full-butt_,
  And hurt my _Great Toe_.


_Written on the Door of two celebrated Milliners._

      Within this Place
      Lives _Minerva_ and _Grace_,
  An Angel hangs out at the Door;
      If you rise in the Night,
      And call for a Light,
  Then presently down comes a Wh----.


_Angel, at Marlborough. Upon Miss M - - k._

  Her Step delivers those her Eyes enslave,
  She looks to conquer, but she treads to save.


_From a Window at Kidderminster, Worcestershire._

_A Scrap of a Lady’s Life._

  When first she wakes, a Sigh or two she fetches,
  Then rubs her Eyes,----and Arms and Legs she stretches!
  Oh! for a Husband, out she gently cries,
  If he were here,----he would not let me rise;
  But I must up, for Fear my Love should stay,
  And we should be too late at the new Play.
  Here, _Jenny_, reach my Slippers, bring the Pot;
  Then out she jumps, and down she gives a Squat,
  I think I need not tell you what to do,
  And then she lets a merry Crack or two.

    W. Overb - - ry.


_Bog-House at Ludlow._

  Two pitiful Dukes at our Race did appear;
  One bespoke him a Girl, the other new Geer,
  And both went away without paying I hear,
  For the Cheat lov’d his Money, and so did the Peer.

_Underwritten._

  You Rogue, Taylor shan’t catch me, while your Legs they are cross’d.
  Don’t cry, my dear Girl, since you have got more than you lost.


_FINIS._




                      The

                 MERRY-THOUGHT:

                    or, the

          Glass-Window and Bog-House

                  MISCELLANY.

                  Taken from

  The Original Manuscripts 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-Glasses and
    Windows in the several noted _Taverns_, _Inns_, and
    other _Publick Places_ in this Nation.

  _Published by_ HURLO THRUMBO.

    _Gameyorum, Wildum, Gorum,
    Gameyorum a Gamy,
    Flumarum a Flumarum,
    A Rigdum Bollarum
    A Rigdum, for a little Gamey._

        Bethleham-Wall, Moor-Fields.


  PART IV.

    _LONDON_:

  Printed for J. ROBERTS in _Warwick-Lane_; and Sold by
    the Booksellers in Town and Country. [Price 6 _d._]




_N. B._ There being a great Number of these Pieces of Wit and Humour at
most Places of publick Resort in this Kingdom, it is hoped that all, who
are pleased with, or willing to promote this Design, will be so good as
to collect and send them to the Publisher hereof. The Editor does not
care how merry they are, provided they are not obscene.




THE

MERRY-THOUGHT.


PART IV.

To the EDITOR of the Glass-Window, _&c._ Miscellany.


_Mr._ BOG,

Where Wit and Learning (as at present in this our Isle) so much abound,
great Marvel it is to me, That so worthy a Compiler of other Men’s
Labours as yourself, should be put to the little mean Shifts of copying
from such _Cacascriptores_, who have from _Hudibras_, _Tom Brown_, and
others of the like Rank, their little Bits and Scraps, basely purloined,
whereby you run a Risque of being deem’d yourself a Plagiary: Nor is it
less unbecoming the Dignity and Fidelity of your Undertaking, to supply
the Want of Application and Diligence, by filling up your lifeless Pages
with Musical Punctations, as vile and unrelishing as ever echo’d from
your own natural Bagpipe. Therefore, that you may the better be enabled
these Indecencies equally to avoid, I send you the following
_Collectanea Nasutula_: If you honour them, I shall honour your next
Performance; if not, _Non cuicunque datum est habere nasum_.


_From a Boghouse near _Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields_._

_The_ WISH.

    Oh! may our Senate, learn’d and great,
    (In order to perpetuate
    The tuneful Strains and witty Flights,
    Of him that Studies while he sh - - ts)
    Decree all Landlords, thro’ the Nation,
    Shall lay (on Pain of Flagellation)
    In some meet Corner of their Dark Hole
    A cuspidated Piece of Charcoal;
    Or, where the Walls are cas’d with Wainscot,
    A Piece of Chalk with equal Pains cut;
    That those who labour at both Ends,
    To ease themselves, and serve their Friends,
    May not, reluctant, go from Sh - - t,
    And leave no Relict of their Wit,
    For want of necessary Tools
    To impart the _Proles_ of their Stools:
    Then _Cibber_’s Odes, and _Tindal_’s Sense,
    _Caleb_ and _Henley_’s Eloquence,
    _Woolston_, and all such learned Sophi’s,
    Would be cut down in House-of-Office:
    _Oxford_ and _Cambridge_ too would join
    Their Puns, to make the Boghouse shine
    Each learn’d Society would try all
    (From lowest Club, to that call’d Royal,)
    To furnish something might improve
    Religion, Politicks, or Love:
    Grand _Keyber_, Gormogons, Free Masons,
    And _Heydeger_, with all his gay Sons,
    Would find to suit, with Lectures there,
    Their Intellectuals to a Hair:
  _Bodens_ might pick up Wit from thence, and lay
  The _Drama_ of another Modish Play.
  So wise a Law would doubtless tend
  To prove our Senate, Learning’s Friend;
  Whilst Trade, and such like fond Chimeras,
  Might wait more fit and leisure _Æra’s._


_From a Window at the _Dolphin_ Inn in _Southampton_._

  The Wedding-Night past, says Sir _John_ to his Mate,
  Faith Madam I’m bit (tho’ I find it too late)
  By your d - - - n’d little Mouth, or else I’m a Whore’s Son,
  For the Cross underneath’s quite out of Proportion.
  Good Sir _John_, says my Lady, then under the Rose,
  I’m as bad bit as you, by your plaguy long Nose:
  You have not by half so much as I wanted,
  I’ve more than you want, yet y’are not contented.


_From the Playhouse Boghouse._

  Good Folks, sh - - t and write, and mend honest Bog’s Trade,
  For when you sh - - t Rhymes, you help him to Bread:
  He’el feed on a Jest, that is broke with your Wind,
  And fatten on what you here leave behind.


_From A Boghouse at the _White Hart_, Petersfield._

  Were this Place to be view’d by a Herald of Note,
  He would find a new Charge for the next new-bought Coat,
  Which _Guillim_ ne’er thought of, nor one of the Herd,
  _Viz._ a Wall erect Argent, _Gutte de T----d._
  And as a Reward, for improving the Art,
  He should bear on a Fess (if he paints it) a F - - - t.


_Underwritten._

  A Pox on your writing, I thought you were sh - - - - g,
    My great Gut has giv’n me such Twitches:
  Had you scribled much more, I’m a Son of a Whore,
    If I should not have don’t in my Breeches.


_From the _White Lyon_, _Bristol_._

    I’m witty, I’ll Write,
    I’m valiant, I’ll Fight,
  And take all that’s said in my own Sense:
    In Liquor I’m sunk,
    And confoundedly drunk,
  So there is the Source of this Nonsense.


_From the same Place._

  A Wretch, whom Fortune has been pleas’d to rowl
  From the Tip-top of her enchanted Bowl,
  Sate musing on his Fate, but could not guess,
  Nor give a Reason for her Fickleness:
  Such Thoughts as these would ne’er his Brain perplex,
  Did he but once reflect upon her Sex:
  For how could he expect, or hope to see,
  In Woman either Truth or Constancy.


_Written on the Wall of one of the Summer-Houses in _Gray’s-Inn_ Walks,
  under a curious Piece of Drawing._

  Come hither, Heralds, view this Coat,
    ’Twill bear Examination,
  ’Tis ancient, and derives its Note
    From the first Pair’s Creation.
  The Field is _Luna_, _Mars_ a Pale,
    Within an Orle of _Saturn_;
  Charg’d with two Pellets at the Tail:
    Pray take it for a Pattern.

_Under-written._

  I don’t see your _Luna_, nor _Saturn_, nor _Mars_,
  But I see her ---- plain, and I see his bare A - - se.


_From another Place in the same Walks._

  Could fairest dear _Eliza_ know how much I love,
  My Story might, at least, her gen’rous Pity move;
  Her Pity’s all my Hope, nor durst I more implore,
  With that I still might live, and still her Charms adore.

_Under-written._

  Poor Wretch, alas! I pity Thee with all my heart,
  Since that, it seems, alone will cure thy Love-sick Smart:
  For he that has not Courage further to implore,
  May surely have our Pity, but deserves no more.


_From a _Bog-House_ at the _George-Inn_ in _Whitchurch_._

  From costive Stools, and hide-bound Wit,
  From Bawdy Rhymes, and Hole besh - - t.
  From Walls besmear’d with stinking Ordure,
  By Swine who nee’r provide Bumfodder
      _Libera Nos_ ----


_Upon a Pillar at the _Royal-Exchange_._

  This City is a World that’s full of Streets,
  And Death’s the Market-Place where Mankind meets;
  If Life were Merchandize, that Men could buy,
  The Rich would only live, the Poor must die.


_In the Window of a _Green-House_ near _Tunbridge_._

  Sitting on yon Bank of Grass,
  With a blooming buxom Lass;
  Warm with Love, and with the Day,
  We to cool us went to play.
  Soon the _am’rous_ Fever fled,
  But left a worse _Fire_ in its Stead.
  Alas! that _Love_ should cause such Ills!
  As doom to _Diet-Drink_ and _Pills_.


_An Encomium on a _Fart_._

  I sing the Praises of a _Fart_.
  That I may do’t by Rules of _Art_.
  I will invoke no _Deity_,
  But _Butter’d-Pease_ and _Furmity_;
  And think their Help sufficient
  To sit and furnish my Intent:
  For sure I must not use _high Strains_,
  For fear it bluster out in _Grains_.
  When _Virgil_’s _Gnat_, and _Ovid_’s _Flea_,
  And _Homer_’s _Frogs_ strive for the Day;
  There is no Reason in my Mind,
  That a brave _Fart_ should come _behind_:
  Since that you may it _parallel_,
  With any Thing that doth _excel_.
  _Musick_ is but a _Fart_ that’s sent
  From the _Guts_ of an _Instrument_:
  The Scholar _farts_; but when he gains
  Learning with _cracking_ of his Brains;
  And having spent much Pain and Oil,
  _Thomas_ and _Dun_ to reconcile,
  For to learn the abstracting _Art_,
  What does he get by’t? Not a _Fart_.
  The Soldier makes his Foes to run
  With but the _Farting_ of a Gun;
  That’s if he make the _Bullet whistle_,
  Else ’tis no better than a _Fizzle_:
  And if withal the Winds do stir-up
  Rain, ’tis but a _Fart_ in Syrrup.
  They are but _Farts_, the _Words_ we say,
  Words are but _Wind_, and so are they.
  Applause is but a _Fart_, the crude
  _Blast_ of the fickle Multitude.
  The Boats that lie the _Thames_ about,
  Be but _Farts_ several Docks let out.
  Some of our _Projects_ were, I think,
  But politick _Farts_, _Foh! how they stink_!
  As soon as born, they by-and-by,
  _Fart-like_, but only breathe, and die.
  _Farts_ are as good as _Land_, for both
  We hold _in Tail_, and _let_ them both:
  Only the Difference here is, that
  _Farts_ are _let_ at a lower _Rate_.
  I’ll say no more, for this is right,
  That for my _Guts_ I cannot write;
  Though I should study all my Days,
  Rhimes that are worth the Thing I praise:
  What I have said, take in good Part,
  If not, I do not care a _Fart_.


_Written in Chalk under the _George-Inn_ Sign at _Farnham_._

  St. _George_ to save a _Maid_, a _Dragon_ slew,
  A gallant Action, grant the Thing be true.
  Yet some say there’s no _Dragons_.----Nay, tis said,
  There’s no _St. George_----Pray Heav’n there be a _Maid_.


_In the Window of a fine _Assembly-Room_ on a vast Appearance at its
  Opening._

  The Novelty this Crowd invites,
  ’Tis strange, and therefore it delights;
  For Folks Things eagerly pursue,
  Not that they’re good, but that they’re new.
  Pleasure must vary, or must cease,
  We tire of Bliss, grow sick of Ease.
  And if the Year we’re doom’d to Play,
  To Work would be a Holiday.


_Over the Gate of _Redgrave Hall_, on a Visit made by Queen _Elizabeth_
  to Sir _Nicholas Bacon_, then Lord Keeper._

  When great ELIZA saw at _Redgrave-Hall_,
  The Apartments _few_, and those indeed but _small_,
  Thus to its _Lord_, bespoke the gracious QUEEN;
  Methinks for _you_, this _Mansion_ is too _mean_.
  _For me, my Liege_, quoth he, _of old ’twas meet,
  But _you_ have made _me_ for my _House--too great.


_Written by Sir _Thomas Moor_._

  At last I’ve found a _Haven_ where,
  I’ll ride secure from _Hope_ or _Fear_.
  Thy Game is, _Fortune_, o’er with me, }
  And thou to others now may’st _flee_  }
  To cheat them with _Inconstancy_.     }


_The Nature of Women: From a _Summer-House_ near _Richmond_._

  Fair and foolish, little and loud,
  Long and lazy, black and proud;
  Fat and merry, lean and sad,
  Pale and peevish, red and bad.


_The Nature of Men from the same._

  To a Red Man read thy Read;
  To a Brown Man break thy Bread;
  At a Pale Man draw thy Knife;
  From a Black Man keep thy Wife.


_In a Chamber Window in _Queen’s College, Cambridge_._

  Our _Bodies_ are like _Shoes_, which oft we _cast_,
  _Physick_ the _Cobler_ is, and _Death_ the _Last_.


_On a Tomb._

  Here, in their last Bed,
  The loving _Alice_ rests with her Love _Ned_.

_Underwritten by a _Cambridge_ Schollar._

  _Viator siste! ecce miraculum!
  Vir & Uxor, hic non litigant._

_Which in _English_ may stand thus._

  Behold a Bed, where, without Strife,
  There rests a Man, and eke his Wife.


_Tom of _Bedlam_’s Sentiments on Marriage._

  One ask’d a Madman, if a Wife he had,
  A Wife! quoth he.----No!----I’m not quite so mad.


_In the Vaults belonging to Trinity College, _Cambridge_, there is cut
  the Form of a Tobacco-Box, with this Inscription:_

  Pandora’s Treasure.

_Underneath,_

  Tobacco, that outlandish Weed,
  It dries the Brain, and spoils the Seed;
  It dulls the Spirit, it dims the Sight,
  It robs a Woman of her Right.


_An Epitaph on a Wicked Man’s Tomb. Written by Doctor _Wild_ the famous
  Non-Conformist Minister._

  Beneath this Stone there lies a cursed Sinner,
  Doom’d to be roasted for the Devil’s Dinner.


_In the Vaults at _Chelsea_, and in an hundred other Places._

  When the Devil was sick, the Devil a Monk would be,
  When the Devil was well, the Devil a Monk was he.


_Sir _Walter Raleigh_ on the Snuff of a Candle the Night before he
  died._

  Cowards fear to die, but Courage stout,
  Rather than live in Snuff, will put it out.


_On Marriage: In a Window at _Tunbridge_._

  If ’tis to marry when the Knot is ty’d,
  Why then they marry, who at _Tyburn_ ride.
  And if that Knot, ’till Death, is loos’d by none,
  Why then to marry, and be hang’d’s all one.


_In a Window in a Public-House, near _Tunbridge_._

        Sing High Ding a Ding,
        And Ho Ding a Ding,
        I’m finely brought to Bed;
  My Lord has stole that troublesome Thing,
      That Folks call a Maidenhead.

    _Jane Hughs_ eighteen Years of Age.


_A little below it, in the same Window._

        Then sing High Ding a Ding,
        And Ho Ding a Ding,
        You’re finely brought to Bed;
  For something you’ve got for that troublesome Thing,
    A Cl--p for a Maidenhead.

    _By my Lord’s Gentleman._


_Written in the first Leaf of _Arbor Vitæ_._

  Two D - - - s, and a Doctor, ’tis said, wrote this Piece,
  Who were modest as Whores, and witty as Geese.
  They penn’d it, it seems, to shew their great Parts,
  Their Skill in Burlesque, and their Knowledge in Arts
  But what say the Town----that ’t has fully desected,
  That Fools they are all----which had long been suspected.


_At the _Red Lyon_ at _Egham_, and in the Windows at many other Places._

  _Cornutus_ call’d his Wife both Whore and Slut,
  Quoth she, you’ll never leave your Brawling--but--
  But, what? quoth he: Quoth she, the Post or Door;
  For you have Horns to But, if I’m a Whore.


_In a Window at the Pudding-House in the Road to _Islington_._

  The End of all, and in the End
  The Praise of all depends:
  A Pudding merits double Praise,
  Because it hath two Ends.


_Underneath it._

  A Pudding hath two Ends; You lye, my Brother,
  For it begins at one, and ends at t’other.


_On Marriage. By a Batchelor._

  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 noble 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 noblest 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 Butter 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 assembled here,
  ’Tis _Venus_ Queen of Beauty’s Sphere,
  In all her Charms she stands confest,
  And rules supreme the noblest 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_._

  _Dick_, on two Words, thought to maintain him ever:
  The first was _Stand_, and next to _Stand, Deliver_.
  But _Dick_’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 _Phœbus_ 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, Coxcomb, 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 rehearses,
  When with straining
  You’re obtaining
  Her Assistance
  ’Gainst Resistance,
  Made by Mistress
  To your Distress.
  Therefore early
  Quit them fairly,
  If you’d be rid of Woe,
  Prithee, Prithee, Coxcomb, 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 Passion 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.


_On a Pannel at the Faulcon in _St. Neot_’s _Huntingdonshire_._

      My Maidenhead sold for a Guinea,
        A lac’d Head with the Money I bought;
      In which I look’d so bonny,
        The Heart of a Gamester I caught:
  A while he was fond, and brought Gold to my Box,
  But at last he robb’d me, and left me the P----

_Underneath._

  When you balance Accounts, it sure may be said,
  You at a bad Market sold your Maidenhead.


_The _Inamorato_. In a Window at _Twickenham_._

  When dull and melancholy,
  I rove to charming _Dolly_,
  Whose Sweetness doth so charm me,
  And wanton Tricks so warm me,
  That quite dissolv’d in Love,
  No Trouble then I prove,
  But am as truly blest
  Upon her panting Breast,
  As if to me she brought
  All for which _Cæsar_ fought:
  For I, like _Anthony_,
  With Beauty would be free,
  Altho’ again’t shou’d cost
  The Price of Empire lost.

_An _Answer_. In the next Pane._

  You sure were full of Folly,
  When in the Praise of _Dolly_,
  You wrote your am’rous Ditty,
  Which sure deserves her Pity,
  Since plainly it doth prove,
  Your Brain is crack’d with Love;
  Who else would talk of giving
  An Empire for a ----
  When Twenty will down           }
  Each for a Silver Crown,        }
  And thank you when they’ve done }


_In a Window. At _Lebeck’s-Head_._

  If it be true each Promise is a Debt,
  Then _Celia_ hardly will her Freedom get;
  Yet she, to satisfy her Debts, desires
  To yield her Body as the Law requires.


_In the _Summer-House_ on _Gray’s Inn Terras_._

  Who speaks to please in ev’ry Way,
    And not himself offend,
  He may begin to work to Day,
    But Heaven knows when he’ll end.


_In the same Place._

  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.

      Then quit Hopes of rising,
      And Riches despising,
      Leave the Camp and the Court
      For Love’s pleasing Sport;
      By Experience you’ll know,                         }
      Love’s Pleasure’s still flow,                      }
      Un-embitter’d with Care, and untinctur’d with Woe. }


_In a Window at _Parson’s-Green_._

_The Lover’s Retreat._

  From meaner Pleasure I retire,
    Yet real Happiness pursue;
  Friendship 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 manus._


_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, cum digito terge Feramen._

_In _English_. By another._

  If you cannot get some Grass,
  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 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._




_Entertaining PAMPHLETS just Printed._


1. THE MERRY-THOUGHT: Or, _The Glass-Window and Bog-House Miscellany_.
Containing such Pieces of Wit and Humour as have been writ with
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Glass-Windows, Drinking-Glasses, Bog-Houses, _&c._ at the most publick
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5. _The BEAU’s_ MISCELLANY. Being a Curious Collection of amorous Tales,
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_The Parson and his Maid_; _The Hoop-Petticoat_; _The Tickler_; _The
Maiden’s and Batchelor’s Dreams_; _cum multis aliis_.

  _If these merry Tales don’t ev’ry Humour fit,
  Let Fops, like me, ne’er nibble more at Wit._

In two Parts. The Second Edition. Price stich’d 2 _s._ neatly bound
2 _s._ 6 _d._


6. A PROPOSAL humbly offered to the Parliament, for the more effectual
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_Damn’d_. The Second Edition. Price 6 _d._


7. _The Behaviour of the Clergy, as well as their Traditions destructive
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  _My Book a _Salesman_’s Shop you’ll find,_
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  _To a _Fool_’s Coat of any Kind,_
    _You’r welcome if it fit ye._

The Second Edition. Price 1 _s._


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  _Happy the Man, who void of Care and Strife,
  In silken or in leathern Purse retains
  A splendid Shilling._

      Phillips.

          Price 6 _d._


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  _From Nothing comes Nothing, and there remains Nothing._

  From a Copy-Book in the _Blue-Coat_ Hospital.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *

Errata:

  The List of Editors was despeckled in scanning. All periods
  (full stops) were supplied by the transcriber.


Editor’s Introduction:

  By Swine who nee’r provide Bumfodder
    _spelling unchanged (taken from primary text)_


Primary Text:

Title Page:
  All title pages-- including Part 1, issued as a separate ARS
    publication-- are essentially identical.
  --The last part of the second paragraph (after “... Nation.”) varies.
  --The name “Bethleham-Wall” is spelled “Bethlehem” in Part 3.

Part 2:
  Will make a T    d more lasting;
    _shown as printed_

Part 3:
  Names the Nymph that I adore.
    _text reads “Npmph”_
  _Save us from sudden Death_, was said,
    _text reads “wa ssaid”_

Part 4:
  Shall lay (on Pain of Flagellation)
  (From lowest Club, to that call’d Royal,)
    _close parenthesis missing from both lines_
  He’el feed on a Jest, that is broke with your Wind,
    _spelling unchanged_
  By Swine who nee’r provide Bumfodder
    _spelling unchanged (quoted in editor’s introduction)_
  E’er I that Suit procure.
    _text has comma at end_
  Professor of Dulness and Bombast. Price 6 _d._
    _text reads “Picre”_


Further Notes:

  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.

  This verse is a translation of Martial V.43:

    _Thaïs habet nigros, niveos Laecania dentes
      Quae ratio est? Emptos haec habet, illa suos._

  _P. S. Quintus_

    Pope Sixtus V (= Quintus).