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