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See, thy mother is near':
Hark! fhe calls thee to hear
What age and experience advise.
Haft thou feen the blithe dove
All gloffy with purple and gold?
She returns it again :
What follows, you need not be told.
Look ye, mother, fhe cry'd,
And men by good-manners are won.
She who trifles with all
Is lefs likely to fall
Than fhe who but trifles with one.
Pr'ythee, Molly, be wise,
Left by fudden furprize
Love should tingle in
Take a fhepherd for life,
And when once you 're a wife,
Molly fmiling reply'd,
Then I'll foon be a bride;
Old Roger has gold in his cheft.
And trifled no more with the rest.
FAIR MAID OF THE INN.
A BALLA D*.
SAYS my Uncle, I pray you
What hath been the cause of your woes;
Why you pine and you whine like a lover?
I have feen Molly Mog of the Rose.
O Nephew! your grief is but folly,
In town you may find better prog;
* This ballad was written on an inn-keeper's daughter at Oakingham in Berkshire, who in her youth was a celebrated beauty and toaft: fhe lived to a very advanced age, dying fo lately as the month of March, 1766. See the New Foundling Hofpital for Wit, Vol. V. p. 45.
Will-a-wifp leads the traveller gadding
Through ditch, and through quagmire, and bog; But no light can fet me a-madding
Like the eyes of
my fweet Molly Mog.
For guineas in other men's breeches
The heart when half wounded is changing,
I feel I 'm in love to diftraction,
And nothing can give fatisfaction
Comes Cupid and gives me a jog,
Those faces want nature and spirit,
And feem as cut out of a log;
Those who toast all the Family Royal,
Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis,
He 'd give-up for fweet Molly Mog.
When the smiles on each gueft, like her liquor,
To be fure fhe 's a bit for the Vicar,
BALL A D.
F all the girls that e'er were seen,
For charming face, and shape, and mien,
Oh! the turn'd neck, and fmooth white skin,
Of lovely deareft Nelly!
For many a fwain it well had been
Had fhe ne'er been at Calai-.
For when as Nelly came to France
Across the Tuilleries each glance
And bid him bring his tabby cat,
The ladies were with rage provok'd,
The men look'd arch, as Nelly ftrok'd,
But not a man did look employ,
Then faid the Duke de Villeroy,
But who's that great philofopher,
The courtiers all, with one accord,