« AnteriorContinuar »
* A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE.
as corruption hence did go,
Without a place or fee ;
And four fair suits he wore ;
All blotch'd and spotted o'er :
Which well court cards they name :
To help out a bad game:
Tho' they ne'er meant to marry,
And call’d a party quarree :
Men of all ranks and fame,
Leave to their wives the only care
To propagate their name ;
30 When the good husband's at Quadrille, &c.
In comes th' apothecary;
Would want both ball and powder ;
45 And made of many a 'squire and lord
An unwash'd Knight of Bath :
The quadruple allies :
And God lave 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.
The Fair Maid of the Innt.
SAYS my uncle, I
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 ;
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 desire is a play-day ;
The schoolmaster's joy is to flog ; The milkmaid's delight is on May.day;
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. + The Rose-inn at Okingham in Berkshire.
For guineas in other mens breeches
Your gamesters will palm and will cog: 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 fo fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog
Who follows all ladies of pleasure,
In pleasure is thought but a hog:
Of joys, as my sweet Molly Mog.
I feel I'm in love to diftraction,
My senses all loft 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 : Jano, Venus, and Pallas's merit
Unite in my sweet Molly Mog.
In bumpers of bogan and nog,
Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog.