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A party late at Cambray met,

Which drew all Europe's eyes;
'Twas call'd in Post Boy and Gazette

The quadruple Allies;
But somebody took something ill,
So broke this party at Quadrille, &c.

And now, God save this noble realm,

And God save eke Hanover;
And God save those who hold the helm

When as the king goes over:
But let the king go where he will,
His subjects must play at Quadrille,

Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.



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.

* The Rose inn, at: Ockingham in Berkshire. H.

I koow 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 cau 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: But I envy them none of their riches,

So I may wip sweet Molly Mog.

The heart, when half wounded, is changing,

It here and there leaps like a frog:
But my

heart can never be rangiog,
'Tis so fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog.

Who follows all ladies of pleasure,

In pleasure is thought but a bog:
All the sex cannot give so good measure

Of joys, 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 drawing-room 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 Phyllis,

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.


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 druuk 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,

Apd eye her o'er and o'er;
Leap as a rake with sighs and care,

Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,

And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown;

But as a groat wow thin !

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.

Strait as my leg her shape appears ;

O were we join'd together!
My heart would be scotfree from cares,

And lighter than a feather,

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As smooth as glass, as white as curds,

Her pretty band 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 :

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