We know not what we catch, we know not who;
And when we grasp our Wish, what Prize is won?
Our Eyes are open’d, and the Play is done.
Some Love Verses being first written on a Window in Brook-Street, and scratched out, occasioned the following:
Good grave Papa, you hope in vain,
By blotting this to mend her;
She who writes Love upon the Pane,
Will soon leap out at Window.
On the Middle Temple Boghouse.
Well sung of Yore, a Bard of Wit,