The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Merry-Thought: or the Glass-Window and
Bog-House Miscellany, by Hurlo Thrumbo (pseudonym)

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Title: The Merry-Thought: or the Glass-Window and Bog-House Miscellany
       Parts 2, 3 and 4

Author: Hurlo Thrumbo (pseudonym)

Commentator: Maximillian E. Novak

Contributor: James Roberts

Release Date: February 6, 2007 [EBook #20535]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8


Produced by Louise Hope, David Starner and the Online
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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 separated, while longer dashes are connected:

D---n Molley H——ns for her Pride.

The Augustan Reprint Society




Glass-Window and Bog-House


Parts 2, 3, and 4



Introduction by


Publication Number 221-222
University of California, Los Angeles


Editor's Introduction

The Merry-Thought, Part II

drawing: Man Hanging for Love

The Merry-Thought, Part III

music: The Galloping Song

The Merry-Thought, Part IV

Advertisement: Entertaining Pamphlets



David Stuart Rodes, University of California, Los Angeles


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


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


Nancy M. Shea, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library


Beverly J. Onley, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library


Frances Miriam Reed, University of California, Los Angeles



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 iv 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.

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.

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.

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 viii 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 ix to clever parody of polite literature, but to a new, almost apocalyptic vision of the sublime.

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 x upon their fins and fly out of the Profound; but their wings are soon dry, and they drop down to the bottom.”8

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

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 xi 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

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



1. On the other hand, the willingness of publishers to bring out such material would have suited well enough with Pope’s picture of their heroic games. See Alexander Pope, The Dunciad, ed. James Sutherland, Twickenham Edition, 2d ed., rev. (London: Methuen, 1953), 297-306, bk 2, lines 17-220.

2. See, for example, W. H. Auden’s “Academic Graffiti,” in Collected Poems, ed. Edward Mendelsohn (London: Faber and Faber, 1976), 510-18. Such a verse as the following is more clever than most graffiti, but like ordinary graffiti it remains essentially “unpoetic”: “Lord Byron / Once succumbed to a Siren. / His flesh was weak, / Hers Greek.”

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

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.

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.

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.

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

8. Alexander Pope, Peri Bathous, in Literary Criticism of Alexander Pope, ed. Bertrand A. Goldgar (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965), 54.

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.


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.

11. See Pops, 31.

12. Blake, Poetry and Prose, 491.

13. The Analysis of Beauty, ed. Joseph Burke (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1955), 35.


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]).




Glaſs-Window and Bog-Houſe


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.



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.


1 B





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.


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

T. S. 1711.

3 B2
Written on the Looking-Glass of Mr. T‑‑p‑‑n, Fellow-Commoner of Trinity-College, Cambridge.
Imago in Speculo loquitur ad T‑‑p‑‑n.


Thou pretty little fluttering Thing,

That mak’st this gaudy Shew;

Thou senseless Mimick of a Man,

Thou Being, call’d a Beau.


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.


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

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:

9 C

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.


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,

11 C2

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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 15 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,


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.

17 D
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.


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.

picture described above


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.


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.

19 D2
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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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

Captain R. T.


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.


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.


’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.


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.


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.

25 E

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.






Glaſs-Window and Bog-Houſe


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 Gamy,
Flumarum a Flumarum,
A Rigdum Bollarum
A Rigdum, for a little Gamey.

Bethlehem-Wall, Moor-Fields.


Printed for J. Roberts in Warwick-Lane; and Sold by the Booksellers in Town and Country.   [Price 6 d.]





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.


1 B



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.


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.

3 B2
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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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!


Avoid the Thunder-Clps, and After-Clps, 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.


A Toast is like a Sot,

Or what is most

Comparable —— a Sot,

—— Is like a Toast;

9 C

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.

11 C2
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.


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.


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.


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.

17 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.

19 D2
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.


——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.


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.


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.


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.

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, 24 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.


MIDI file: default (piano)
MIDI file: harpsichord

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The “E” in “hold thy Hand” has been rendered as E natural rather than E flat, and a few durations were adjusted to fit the meter.

Galloping Song (redrawn)

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.


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.






Glaſs-Window and Bog-Houſe


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.


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.


3 B2



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.

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.


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.


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.


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.

9 B

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.

11 B2
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.


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.

17 D
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!


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.

19 D2
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——


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.A

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.

25 E
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. QuintusB, 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.


—— —— —— 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.


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

27 E2
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——





Transcriber’s Footnotes

A. “Why are Doll’s teeth so white...”

This verse is a translation of Martial V.43:

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

B. P. S. Quintus = Pope Sixtus V. (Quintus)

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Merry-Thought: or the Glass-Window
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