From a Window at Spring-Gardens, Vaux-Hall.
Exil'd from London, happy could I live,
Were this my Paradise, and this my Eve.
At the Cardinal's-Cap at Windsor.
Michael Hunt's Health.
Here's a Health to Mich. Hunt,
And to Mich. Hunt's Breeches;
And why may not I scratch Mich. Hunt,
When Mich. Hunt itches.
The Clock goes as swift as the Hours that fly,