  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, Isend you the following Collectanea Nasutula: If you honour them, Ishall honour your next Performance; if not, Non cuicunque datum est habere nasum.
From a Boghouse near Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields.The WISH.Oh! may our Senate, learn’d and great, (In order to perpetuate The tuneful Strains and witty Flights, Of him that Studies while he sh--ts) Decree all Landlords, thro’ the Nation, Shall lay (on Pain of Flagellation) In some meet Corner of their Dark Hole A cuspidated Piece of Charcoal; Or, where the Walls are cas’d with Wainscot, A Piece of Chalk with equal Pains cut; That those who labour at both Ends, To ease themselves, and serve their Friends, May not, reluctant, go from Sh--t, And leave no Relict of their Wit, For want of necessary Tools To impart the Proles of their Stools: Then Cibber’s Odes, and Tindal’s Sense, Caleb and Henley’s Eloquence, Woolston, and all such learned Sophi’s, Would be cut down in House-of-Office: Oxford and Cambridge too would join Their Puns, to make the Boghouse shine Each learn’d Society would try all (From lowest Club, to that call’d Royal,) To furnish something might improve Religion, Politicks, or Love: Grand Keyber, Gormogons, Free Masons, And Heydeger, with all his gay Sons, Would find to suit, with Lectures there, Their Intellectuals to a Hair: Bodens might pick up Wit from thence, and lay The Drama of another Modish Play. So wise a Law would doubtless tend To prove our Senate, Learning’s Friend; Whilst Trade, and such like fond Chimeras, Might wait more fit and leisure Æra’s. From a Window at the Dolphin Inn in Southampton.The Wedding-Night past, says Sir John to his Mate, Faith Madam I’m bit (tho’ I find it too late) By your d---n’d little Mouth, or else I’m a Whore’s Son, For the Cross underneath’s quite out of Proportion. Good Sir John, says my Lady, then under the Rose, I’m as bad bit as you, by your plaguy long Nose: You have not by half so much as I wanted, I’ve more than you want, yet y’are not contented. From the Playhouse Boghouse.Good Folks, sh--t and write, and mend honest Bog’s Trade, For when you sh--t Rhymes, you help him to Bread: He’el feed on a Jest, that is broke with your Wind, And fatten on what you here leave behind. From A Boghouse at the White Hart, Petersfield.Were this Place to be view’d by a Herald of Note, He would find a new Charge for the next new-bought Coat, Which Guillim ne’er thought of, nor one of the Herd, Viz. a Wall erect Argent, Gutte de T——d. And as a Reward, for improving the Art, He should bear on a Fess (if he paints it) a F---t. Underwritten.A Pox on your writing, I thought you were sh----g, My great Gut has giv’n me such Twitches: Had you scribled much more, I’m a Son of a Whore, If I should not have don’t in my Breeches. From the White Lyon, Bristol.I’m witty, I’ll Write, I’m valiant, I’ll Fight, And take all that’s said in my own Sense: In Liquor I’m sunk, And confoundedly drunk, So there is the Source of this Nonsense. From the same Place.A Wretch, whom Fortune has been pleas’d to rowl From the Tip-top of her enchanted Bowl, Sate musing on his Fate, but could not guess, Nor give a Reason for her Fickleness: Such Thoughts as these would ne’er his Brain perplex, Did he but once reflect upon her Sex: For how could he expect, or hope to see, In Woman either Truth or Constancy. Written on the Wall of one of the Summer-Houses in Gray’s-Inn Walks, under a curious Piece of Drawing.Come hither, Heralds, view this Coat, ’Twill bear Examination, ’Tis ancient, and derives its Note From the first Pair’s Creation. The Field is Luna, Mars a Pale, Within an Orle of Saturn; Charg’d with two Pellets at the Tail: Pray take it for a Pattern. Under-written.I don’t see your Luna, nor Saturn, nor Mars, But I see her —— plain, and I see his bare A--se. From another Place in the same Walks.Could fairest dear Eliza know how much I love, My Story might, at least, her gen’rous Pity move; Her Pity’s all my Hope, nor durst I more implore, With that I still might live, and still her Charms adore. Under-written.Poor Wretch, alas! I pity Thee with all my heart, Since that, it seems, alone will cure thy Love-sick Smart: For he that has not Courage further to implore, May surely have our Pity, but deserves no more. From a Bog-House at the George-Inn in Whitchurch.From costive Stools, and hide-bound Wit, From Bawdy Rhymes, and Hole besh--t. From Walls besmear’d with stinking Ordure, By Swine who nee’r provide Bumfodder Libera Nos —— Upon a Pillar at the Royal-Exchange.This City is a World that’s full of Streets, And Death’s the Market-Place where Mankind meets; If Life were Merchandize, that Men could buy, The Rich would only live, the Poor must die. In the Window of a Green-House near Tunbridge.Sitting on yon Bank of Grass, With a blooming buxom Lass; Warm with Love, and with the Day, We to cool us went to play. Soon the am’rous Fever fled, But left a worse Fire in its Stead. Alas! that Love should cause such Ills! As doom to Diet-Drink and Pills. An Encomium on a Fart.I sing the Praises of a Fart. That I may do’t by Rules of Art. I will invoke no Deity, But Butter’d-Pease and Furmity; And think their Help sufficient To sit and furnish my Intent: For sure I must not use high Strains, For fear it bluster out in Grains. When Virgil’s Gnat, and Ovid’s Flea, And Homer’s Frogs strive for the Day; There is no Reason in my Mind, That a brave Fart should come behind: Since that you may it parallel, With any Thing that doth excel. Musick is but a Fart that’s sent From the Guts of an Instrument: The Scholar farts; but when he gains Learning with cracking of his Brains; And having spent much Pain and Oil, Thomas and Dun to reconcile, For to learn the abstracting Art, What does he get by’t? Not a Fart. The Soldier makes his Foes to run With but the Farting of a Gun; That’s if he make the Bullet whistle, Else ’tis no better than a Fizzle: And if withal the Winds do stir-up Rain, ’tis but a Fart in Syrrup. They are but Farts, the Words we say, Words are but Wind, and so are they. Applause is but a Fart, the crude Blast of the fickle Multitude. The Boats that lie the Thames about, Be but Farts several Docks let out. Some of our Projects were, I think, But politick Farts, Foh! how they stink! As soon as born, they by-and-by, Fart-like, but only breathe, and die. Farts are as good as Land, for both We hold in Tail, and let them both: Only the Difference here is, that Farts are let at a lower Rate. I’ll say no more, for this is right, That for my Guts I cannot write; Though I should study all my Days, Rhimes that are worth the Thing I praise: What I have said, take in good Part, If not, I do not care a Fart. Written in Chalk under the George-Inn Sign at Farnham.St. George to save a Maid, a Dragon slew, A gallant Action, grant the Thing be true. Yet some say there’s no Dragons.——Nay, tis said, There’s no St. George——Pray Heav’n there be a Maid. In the Window of a fine Assembly-Room on a vast Appearance at its Opening.The Novelty this Crowd invites, ’Tis strange, and therefore it delights; For Folks Things eagerly pursue, Not that they’re good, but that they’re new. Pleasure must vary, or must cease, We tire of Bliss, grow sick of Ease. And if the Year we’re doom’d to Play, To Work would be a Holiday. Over the Gate of Redgrave Hall, on a Visit made by Queen Elizabeth to Sir Nicholas Bacon, then Lord Keeper.When great Eliza saw at Redgrave-Hall, The Apartments few, and those indeed but small, Thus to its Lord, bespoke the gracious Queen; Methinks for you, this Mansion is too mean. For me, my Liege, quoth he, of old ’twas meet, But you have made me for my House—too great. Written by Sir Thomas Moor.At last I’ve found a Haven where, I’ll ride secure from Hope or Fear. Thy Game is, Fortune, o’er with me, And thou to others now may’st flee To cheat them with Inconstancy. The Nature of Women: From a Summer-House near Richmond.Fair and foolish, little and loud, Long and lazy, black and proud; Fat and merry, lean and sad, Pale and peevish, red and bad. The Nature of Men from the same.To a Red Man read thy Read; To a Brown Man break thy Bread; At a Pale Man draw thy Knife; From a Black Man keep thy Wife. In a Chamber Window in Queen’s College, Cambridge.Our Bodies are like Shoes, which oft we cast, Physick the Cobler is, and Death the Last. On a Tomb.Here, in their last Bed, The loving Alice rests with her Love Ned. Underwritten by a Cambridge Schollar.Viator siste! ecce miraculum! Vir & Uxor, hic non litigant. Which in English may stand thus.Behold a Bed, where, without Strife, There rests a Man, and eke his Wife. Tom of Bedlam’s Sentiments on Marriage.One ask’d a Madman, if a Wife he had, A Wife! quoth he.——No!——I’m not quite so mad. In the Vaults belonging to Trinity College, Cambridge, there is cut the Form of a Tobacco-Box, with this Inscription:Pandora’s Treasure. Underneath,Tobacco, that outlandish Weed, It dries the Brain, and spoils the Seed; It dulls the Spirit, it dims the Sight, It robs a Woman of her Right. An Epitaph on a Wicked Man’s Tomb. Written by Doctor Wild the famous Non-Conformist Minister.Beneath this Stone there lies a cursed Sinner, Doom’d to be roasted for the Devil’s Dinner. In the Vaults at Chelsea, and in an hundred other Places.When the Devil was sick, the Devil a Monk would be, When the Devil was well, the Devil a Monk was he. Sir Walter Raleigh on the Snuff of a Candle the Night before he died.Cowards fear to die, but Courage stout, Rather than live in Snuff, will put it out. On Marriage: In a Window at Tunbridge.If ’tis to marry when the Knot is ty’d, Why then they marry, who at Tyburn ride. And if that Knot, ’till Death, is loos’d by none, Why then to marry, and be hang’d’s all one. In a Window in a Public-House, near Tunbridge.Sing High Ding a Ding, And Ho Ding a Ding, I’m finely brought to Bed; My Lord has stole that troublesome Thing, That Folks call a Maidenhead. 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. Written in the first Leaf of Arbor VitÆ.Two D---s, and a Doctor, ’tis said, wrote this Piece, Who were modest as Whores, and witty as Geese. They penn’d it, it seems, to shew their great Parts, Their Skill in Burlesque, and their Knowledge in Arts But what say the Town——that ’t has fully desected, That Fools they are all——which had long been suspected. At the Red Lyon at Egham, and in the Windows at many other Places.Cornutus call’d his Wife both Whore and Slut, Quoth she, you’ll never leave your Brawling—but— But, what? quoth he: Quoth she, the Post or Door; For you have Horns to But, if I’m a Whore. In a Window at the Pudding-House in the Road to Islington.The End of all, and in the End The Praise of all depends: A Pudding merits double Praise, Because it hath two Ends. Underneath it.A Pudding hath two Ends; You lye, my Brother, For it begins at one, and ends at t’other. On Marriage. By a Batchelor.Wedding and Hanging, both the Fates dispatch. Yet Hanging seems to me the better Match. In a Window at Bath.On a Gentleman’s saying he had calculated his Son’s Nativity, the Boy being then about nine Days old.Lavinia brought to Bed, her Husband looks To know the Bantling’s Fortune in his Books. Wiser he’d been, had he look’d backward rather, And seen for certain, who had been its Father. In the Vaults at Tunbridge.Dung, when scatter’d o’er the Plain, Causes noble Crops of Grain: Dung in Gardens too we want, To cherish ev’ry springing Plant. Corn and Plants since Dung affords, We eat as well as sh—— our T——ds. Written in the Window of a Lady’s Chamber, who on a slight Indisposition sent for S.J.S.The Doctor more than Illness we should fear; Sickness precedes, and Death attends his Coach, Agues to Fevers rise, if he appear, And Fevers grow to Plagues at his Approach. On Miss Green.What gives the pleasant Mead its Grace, What spreads at Spring Earth’s smiling Face, What jolly Hunters chuse to wear, Gives Name to her whose Chains I bear. On Miss Partridge of Ely.That of the pretty feather’d Race, Which most doth courtly Tables grace, And o’er the Mountains bends it Flight, Or lurks in Fields with Harvest bright; For whose Destruction Men with Care, The noblest Canine Breed prepare, Bestows a Name on that fair Maid Whose Eyes to Love my Heart betray’d. On Miss Sk—— at Tunbridge.The Irish have a certain Root, Our Parsnip’s very like unto’t, Which eats with Butter wond’rous well, And like Potatoes makes a Meal. Now from this Root there comes a Name, Which own’d is by the beauteous Dame, Who sways the Heart of him who rules A mighty Herd of Knaves and Fools. A Rebus written in one of the Windows of a large House near Epsom.The Court of Love’s assembled here, ’Tis Venus Queen of Beauty’s Sphere, In all her Charms she stands confest, And rules supreme the noblest Breast. Ye Shepherds would ye learn the Name Of her who spreads so vast a Flame, Know that ’tis hid from the Prophane; And that your strictest Search is Vain. In a Window of the Great Room at Scarborough.What strange Vicissitudes we see In Pleasure, as in Realms take Place For nothing here can constant be, Where springing Joys the old efface. The Theatre, of Yore the Field Of Conquests, gain’d by blooming Maids, Now must to modern Operas yield, As they, to courtly Masquerades. Nor better fares those sweet Retreats Which they in sultry Summer chose: Since Scarb’rough, Paradise of Sweets! On ruined Bath and Tunbridge rose. Traced with a Smoke of a Candle in Newgate.Dick, on two Words, thought to maintain him ever: The first was Stand, and next to Stand, Deliver. But Dick’s in Newgate, and he fears shall never, Be blest again with that sweet Word Deliver. In the Window of a Coffee-House at Richmond.My Chloe is an Angel bright, But Chloe’s common——so is Light. And who with Phoebus Fault shall find, Because his Beams to all are kind. On a Pannel at the Rose.Nanny Meadowes has undone me, From myself her Charms have won me. With Love’s blazing Flames I die, Whither, whither shall I fly! Underneath.Prithee, Coxcomb, without Whining, Say thou hast a mind to Sinning With a Guinea, do but ask her, Love you’ll find——is no hard Task, Sir. On a long-winded Preacher at Coventry: From a Window there.Twelve Minutes, and one tedious Hour Mills kept me once in Pain, But if I had it my Power, He ne’er should preach again. A Liliputian Ode. Composed at Tunbridge.Charming Molly, Cease your Folly, Learn to ease me, No more teaze me. Love’s but Reason When in Season: Nay, ’tis Duty, Youth and Beauty To improve In happy Love. Therefore, Molly, Cease your Folly, And instead of being coy, Give, O give your Lover Joy! The Fair Lady’s Answer. In the same Measure.Rhiming Billy, Soft and silly, Are the verses, Muse rehearses, When with straining You’re obtaining Her Assistance ’Gainst Resistance, Made by Mistress To your Distress. Therefore early Quit them fairly, If you’d be rid of Woe, Prithee, Prithee, Coxcomb, do. The Clowns and the Conjurer. By a Lady.A Clown, who had lost his Mare, To his Neighbour, a Wit, did repair, And begg’d him with him to go To the famous Doctor Foreknow, A Conjurer powerful and strong, Who would tell who had done the Wrong. So when to the Door they came, The Wit, he besh--t the same: Then knocking — the Doctor appears, And in Midst of his Passion he swears, If he knew but the nasty Dog Who had sh--t at his Gate like a Rogue, He’d do to him Lord knows what. Quoth the Wit — why know you not that? Then, Neighbour, e’en save your Pence, For his Learning is all a Pretence: If he knows not who sh-t——of course, He nothing can know of your Horse. And no Light can his Figures afford, Whose Conjuring’s not worth a T—— So as wise our two Clowns came Home, As any who on such Errands roam. On a Pannel at the Faulcon in St. Neot’s Huntingdonshire.My Maidenhead sold for a Guinea, A lac’d Head with the Money I bought; In which I look’d so bonny, The Heart of a Gamester I caught: A while he was fond, and brought Gold to my Box, But at last he robb’d me, and left me the P—— Underneath.When you balance Accounts, it sure may be said, You at a bad Market sold your Maidenhead. The Inamorato. In a Window at Twickenham.When dull and melancholy, I rove to charming Dolly, Whose Sweetness doth so charm me, And wanton Tricks so warm me, That quite dissolv’d in Love, No Trouble then I prove, But am as truly blest Upon her panting Breast, As if to me she brought All for which CÆsar fought: For I, like Anthony, With Beauty would be free, Altho’ again’t shou’d cost The Price of Empire lost. An Answer. In the next Pane.You sure were full of Folly, When in the Praise of Dolly, You wrote your am’rous Ditty, Which sure deserves her Pity, Since plainly it doth prove, Your Brain is crack’d with Love; Who else would talk of giving An Empire for a —— When Twenty will down Each for a Silver Crown, And thank you when they’ve done In a Window. At Lebeck’s-Head.If it be true each Promise is a Debt, Then Celia hardly will her Freedom get; Yet she, to satisfy her Debts, desires To yield her Body as the Law requires. In the Summer-House on Gray’s Inn Terras.Who speaks to please in ev’ry Way, And not himself offend, He may begin to work to Day, But Heaven knows when he’ll end. In the same Place.Dogs on their Masters fawn and leap, And wag their Tails apace, So tho’ a Flatterer wants a Tail, His Tongue supplies its Place. In a Window of the Rene-Deer-Inn at Bishop’s-Strafford.He that loves a Glass without a G, Leave out L, and that is he. Wrote with a Pencil on a Pannel in one of the Courts of Justice in Guild-Hall.To go to Law I have no Maw, Altho’ my Suit be sure, For I may lack Cloaths to my Back, E’er I that Suit procure. At the Tuns in Cambridge. Written with a Pencil on the Wall.Marriage in Days of old has liken’d been Unto a publick Feast, or Revel Rout, Where those who are without would fain get in, And those who are within would fain get out. On two old Maids: Written with a Pencil in the Pump Room at Bath.Why are Doll’s Teeth so white, and Susan’s black? The Reason soon is known. Doll buys her Teeth which she doth lack, But Susan wears her own. In a Window, at the Rose-Tavern in Catherine-Street.On Mrs. C—— P——So early Con began the wanton Trade, She scarce remembers when she was a Maid. In the Window of a Sharper’s Chambers in the Temple.Oft with an Oath has Cog the Gamester said, That no Disease should make him keep his Bed, Urg’d for a Reason, I have heard him tell it, To keep my Word——in Troth I mean to sell it. In a Bog-House at Putney.The Poor have little, Beggars none, The Rich too much, enough, not one. Written at the Request of a Lady who on her Wedding Day entreated an old Lover to write something upon her in the Window.This glittering Diamond, and this worthless Glass, Celia, display thy Virtue and thy Face; Bright as the Brilliant while thy Beauty shows Ev’n Glass itself’s less brittle than thy Vows. The Italian Gout.If a Man lets a Fart in fair Italy, From Lovers he never is after free; For why —— amongst those Dons, ’tis said, ’Tis a certain Sign of a Male Maidenhead. In a Window of a certain Lady of Pleasure’s Lodgings in Bow-Street.When with Phillis toying, Eager for enjoying, What Muse can say How sweet our Play, What Numbers tell The Joys we feel? Happy Lovers only know Bliss unmix’d with any Woe. The Ambitious when rais’d to the Summit of Power, In the Midst of their Joy fear that Fortune may lower; The Miser, who Thousands has heap’d in his Chest, In the Midst of Riches is never at rest. And the Heroe, whose Bosom his Glory still warms, In the Midst of his Conquests fears the Change of his Arms. But the Lover, whose Fondness his Hours doth employ, In the Midst of her Charms knows no End of his Joy. Then quit Hopes of rising, And Riches despising, Leave the Camp and the Court For Love’s pleasing Sport; By Experience you’ll know, Love’s Pleasure’s still flow, Un-embitter’d with Care, and untinctur’d with Woe. In a Window at Parson’s-Green.The Lover’s Retreat.From meaner Pleasure I retire, Yet real Happiness pursue; Friendship and Love my Breast inspire, And I have met them both in you, Whatever in my Wish had Place, In thee, my lovely Fair, I find; All that’s beauteous in thy Face, And all that’s virtuous in thy Mind. Written by Mr. —— in Chloe’s Bed-Chamber.Wou’d you know the true Road that to Pleasure doth lead, Then this Way, ye Swains, your Footsteps must tread. And then for the Piece which this Pleasure doth cost, Why, ’tis only a Guinea, you can’t think it lost. Since Supper and Lodging, and Mistress and all, Nay, and Maid, if you like her, are ready at Call. The Thief and the Doctor.A Thief a Parson stopp’d on the Highway, And having bid him stand, next bid him pay. The Parson drew his sword, for well he durst, And quickly put his Foe unto the Worst. Sir, (quoth the Thief) I by your Habit see, You are a Churchman, and Debate should flee, You know ’tis written in the sacred Word, Jesus to Peter said, Put up thy Sword: True, (quoth the Parson) but withal then hear, St. Peter first had cut off Malchus’s Ear. Pasquin against P. S. Quintus |
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