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.