Pleas’d with our scribling we cut swiftly on,
And see the Nonsense, which we cannot shun.
In a Window at the Kings-Arms Tavern, Fleet-Street.
Both mine and Women’s Fate you’ll judge from hence ill,
That we are pierc’d by ev’ry Coxcomb’s Pencil.
Written in a Window at a private House, by a desponding Lover in the Presence of his Mistress.
This Glass, my Fair’s the Emblem of your Mind,
Which brittle, slipp’ry, pois’nous oft we find.
Her Answer underneath.
I must confess, kind Sir, that though this Glass,