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See, thy mother is near':
Hark! she calls thee to hear

What age and experience advise.
Hast thou seen the blithe dore
Stretch her neck to her love,

All glofly with purple and gold?
If a kiss he obtain,
She returns it again :

What follows, you need not be told.
Look ye, mother, the cry'd,
You instruct me in pride,

And men by good-manners are won.
She who trifles with all
Is less likely to fall

Than the who but trifles with one.
Prythee, Molly, be wise,
Lest by sudden surprize
Love should tingle in every

vein :
Take a thepherd for life,
And when once you 're a wife,

You fafely may trifle again.
Molly smiling reply'd,
Then I'll soon be a bride ;

Old Roger has gold in his chest.
But I thought all you wives
Chose a man for your lives,

And trifed no more with the rest.

MOLLY M O L L Y

M O G:

OR,' THE

FAIR MAID OF THE INN.

A BALLAD*.

AYS my Uncle, I pray you
SAY

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;
Half a crown there will get you a Molly,

A Molly much better than Mog.
I know that by wits 'tis recited

That women are best at a clog ;
But I am not so easily frighted

From loving of sweet Molly Mog.
The school-boy's desire is a play-day;

The school-master's joy is to fog;
The milk-maid's delight is on May-day ;

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.

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But my

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;
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 ;

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;
All the fex 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 fweet Molly Mog

Those

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 fets me agog;
To be sure she 's a bit for the Vicar,

And fo I shall lose Molly Mog.

B A L L A D.

OF.

F all the girls that e'er were seen,

There 's none fo fine as Nelly,
For charming face, and shape, and mien,
And what's not fit to tell

ye:
Oh! the turn'd neck, and smooth white skin,

Of lovely dearest Nelly !
For many a swain it well had been

Had the ne'er been at Calai..

For

For when as, Nelly came to France

(Invited by her coufins), Across the Tuilleries each glance

Kill’d Frenchmen by whole dozens.
The king, as he at dinner fat,

Did beckon to his hussar,
And bid him bring his tabby cat,

For charming Nell to buss her.
The ladies were with rage provok’d,

To see her so respected;
The men look'd arch, as Nelly strok'd,

And puss her tail erected.
But not a man did look employ,

Except on pretty Nelly;
Then said the Duke de Villeroy,

“ Ah! qu'elle est bien jolie !" But who 's that great philosopher,

That carefully looks at her?
By his concern it should appear,

The fair-one is his daughter.
Ma foy! (quoth then a courtier fly,

He on his child does leer too :
I wish he has no mind to try

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).

Then

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