I kiss’d her the next Night, and she’s one of the Walkers Family.
Feb. 18. 1725.
Dublin in a Window in Castle-Street.
O mortal Man that’s made of Clay,
Is here to-Morrow, and is gone to Day.
In a Bog-House at Hampstead.
There’s Nothing foul that we commit,
But what we write, and what we sh--t.
Three-Pigeons at Brentford.
Wer’t not for Whims, Candles, and Carrots