His squeamish Exception would make one believe it;
Though the Smell where we sh——t, is not grateful a Bit,
Yet I ne’er knew a C——y that favour’d of Civet.
Oxon, on a Window.
Knowledge, thou Darling of the Soul,
Be thou my Help-Mate o’er a flowing Bowl;
Then will my Time slide easily along,
And ev’ry gen’rous Mortal grace our Song.
Underwritten.
D——n your Knowledge, says Captain Blunt, swear, drink, and smoke, and you’re an honest Fellow.