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,