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MOLLY MOG :

OR, T H E
FAIR MAID OF THE INN*.

SAYS my uncle, I pray you discover
What hath been the cause of your woes,

Why you pine and you whine like a lover:
I've seen Molly Mog of the Rose.

O nephew your grief is but folly;
In town you may find better prog;

Half a crown there will get you a Molly,
A Molly much better than Mog.

I know that by wits 'tis recited,
That women at best are a clog:

But I'm not so easily frighted;
From loving my sweet Molly Mog.

The schoolboy's delight is a play-day;
The schoolmaster's joy is to flog,

The milkmaid's delight is on Mayday;
But mine is on sweet Molly Mog.

Will-o'-wisp leads the traveller a gadding
Thro' ditch, and thro' quagmire and bog:

But no light can set me a madding,
Like the eyes of my sweet Molly Mog,

For guineas in other men's breeches
Your gamesters will palm and will cog:

* The Rose inn, at Ockingham in Berkshire.

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But I envy them none of their riches,
So I may win sweet Molly Mog.

The heart, when half wounded, is changing,
It here and there leaps like a frog :

But my heart can never be ranging,
'Tis so fix’d upon sweet Molly Mog.

Who follows all ladies of pleasure,
In pleasure is thought but a hog:

All the sex cannot give so good measure
Ofjoys, as my sweet Molly Mog.

I feel I’m in love to distraction,
My senses all lost in a fog;
And nothing can give satisfaction

But thinking of sweet Molly Mog.

A letter when I am inditing,
Comes Cupid, and gives me a jog ;

And I fill all the paper with writing
Of nothing but sweet Molly Mog.

If I would not give up the three Graces,
I wish I were hang'd like a dog,

And at court all the drawingroom faces,
For a glance of my sweet Molly Mog,

Those faces want nature and spirit,
And seem as cut out of a log :

Juno, Venus, and Pallas's merit
Unite in my sweet Molly Mog.

Those who toast all the family royal
In bumpers of hogan and nog,
Have hearts not more true or more loyal
Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog.

Were Virgil alive with his Phillis,
And writing another eclogue:

Both his Phyllis and fair Amaryllis
He’d give up for sweet Molly Mog.

When she smiles on each guest, like her liquor,
Then jealousy sets me agog;
To be sure she's a bit for the vicar,

And so I shall lose Molly Mog.

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILIES.

MY passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad,

Drunk as a piper all day long,
Or like a March hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;

For, though as drunk as David's sow,
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pearmonger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;

Cool as a cucumber could see
The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;

Lean as a rake with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was l known,
And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown;
But as a groat now thin 1.
I, me-
I, melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to peep;

But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone;
She laughs to see me pale;

And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The God of Love, at her approach,
Is busy as a bee |

Hearts sound as any bell or roach
Are Smit, and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail,
The fine men crowd about her:

But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears; O were we join'd together!

My heart would be scotfree from cares And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien ;
No drum was ever tighter;

Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are:
Methinks I taste them yet;

Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds, Her pretty hand invites ;

Sharp as a needle are her words;
Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest:

Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:

Good Lord! how all men envied me !
She lov'd like any thing.

But, false as Hell, she, like the wind,
Chang'd as her sex must do ;

Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the Gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru !

Great as an emp'ror should I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post:

Let us like burs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die,
And wish me better sped,

Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear,
And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,

And mute as any fish. NEW

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