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A party late at Cambray met,
Which drew all Europe's eyes;
The quadruple Allies;
And God save eke Hanover;
When as the king goes over:
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.
OR, THE 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;
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:
heart can never be rangiog,
Who follows all ladies of pleasure,
In pleasure is thought but a bog:
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,
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,
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 ;
And so I shall lose Molly Mog.
A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILIES.
My passion is as mustard strong ;
I sit all sober sad,
Or like a March hare mad.
Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
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;
Sleek as a mouse before.
Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;
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 ;
A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILIES.
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.
The God of Love, at her approach,
Is busy as a bee!
Are smit, and sigh like me.
Ah me! as thick as hops or hail,
The fine men crowd about her:
Shall I be, if without her.
Strait as my leg her shape appears ;
O were we join'd together!
And lighter than a feather,
As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty band invites ;
Her wit like pepper bites..
Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest :