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A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE *.
WRITTEN BY MR. CONCREVE.
WHEN, as Corruption hence did go,
And left the nation free;
Without a place or fee:
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.
Kings, queens, and knaves made up his pack,
And four fair suits he wore:
All blotch'd and spotted o'er:
Sure cards he has for ev'ry thing,
Which well court-cards they name;
To help out a bad game:
* On the subject of this ballad, see a letter from Arbuthnot to Swift, dated Nov. 8, 1726.
F F 2 IV. When IV.
When two and two were met of old,
They were in Cupid's books enroll'd,
But now, meet when and where you will,
A party quarree is Quadrille, &c.
The commoner, and knight, the peer,
Men of all ranks and fame,
To propagate their name;
When patients lie in piteous case,
In comes th' apothecary;
Non debes quadrillare.
Should France and Spain again grow loud,
The Muscovite grow louder; Britain, to curb her neighbours proud,
Would want both ball and powder; Must want both sword and gun to kill; For why? the gen'ral's at Quadrille, &c.
VIII. THE VIII. MOLLY MOG:
The king of late drew forth his sword
And made of many a 'squire and lord
What are their feats of arms and skill?
They're but nine parties at Quadrille, &c.
A party late at Cambray met,
'Twas call'd in Post Boy and Gazette
But somebody took something ill,
So broke this party at Quadrille, &V.
And now, God save this noble realm,
And God save those who hold the helm,
But let the king go where he will,
His subjects must play at Quadrille,
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.
FAIR MAID OF THE INN*.
SAYS my uncle, I pray you discover
Why you pine and you whine like a lover:
0 nephew! your grief is but folly;
Haifa crown there will get you a Molly,
1 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 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
But no light can set me a madding,
For guineas in other men's breeches
• The Rose inn, at Ockingham in Berkshire.
But I envy them none of their riches,
The heart, when half wounded, is changing,
It here and there leaps like a frog: But my heart can never be ranging,
Tis so 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 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 ttpst all the family royal
In bumpers of hogan and nog,
Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog.
F F 4 Were