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See, thy mother is near':
What age and experience advise.
All glofly with purple and gold?
What follows, you need not be told.
And men by good-manners are won.
Than the who but trifles with one.
You fafely may trifle again.
Old Roger has gold in his chest.
And trifed no more with the rest.
MOLLY M O L L Y
M O G:
FAIR MAID OF THE INN.
AYS my Uncle, I pray you
discover What hath been the cause of your woes ; Why you pine and you whine like a lover ?
- I have 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.
That women are best at a clog ;
From loving of sweet Molly Mog.
The school-master's joy is to fog;
But mine is on sweet Molly Mog. * This ballad was written on an inn-keeper's daughter at Oakingham in Berkshire, who in her youth was a celebrated beauty and toaft : the lived to a very advanced age, dying so lately as the month of March, 1766. See the New Foundling Hospital for Wit,
Vol. V. p. 45.
Will-a-wisp leads the traveller gadding
Through ditch, and through quagmire, and bog; But no light can fet 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;
envy them none of their riches,
heart can never be ranging,
In pleasure is thought but a hog;
Of joys, as my sweet Molly Mog.
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,
Of nothing but sweet Molly Mog.
I wish I were hang'd like a dog,
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.
In bumpers of Hogan and Nog,
Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog.
And writing another Eclogue ; Both his Phyllis and fair Amaryllis
He 'd give-up for sweet Molly Mog.
Then jealousy fets me agog;
And fo I shall lose Molly Mog.
B A L L A D.
F all the girls that e'er were seen,
There 's none fo fine as Nelly,
Of lovely dearest Nelly !
Had the ne'er been at Calai..
For when as, Nelly came to France
(Invited by her coufins), Across the Tuilleries each glance
Kill’d Frenchmen by whole dozens.
Did beckon to his hussar,
For charming Nell to buss her.
To see her so respected;
And puss her tail erected.
Except on pretty Nelly;
“ Ah! qu'elle est bien jolie !" But who 's that great philosopher,
That carefully looks at her?
The fair-one is his daughter.
He on his child does leer too :
What some papa's will here do. The courtiers all, with one accord,
Broke out in Nelly's praises, Admir'd her rose, and lys fans farde,
(Which are your termes Françoises).