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, the 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 wife, Left by fudden furprize Love should tingle in every vein : 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. But I thought all you wives And trifled no more with the reft. MOLLY MOLLY OR, THE MOG: FAIR MAID OF THE INN. A BALLAD *. SAYS my Uncle, I pray you discover What hath been the cause of your woes; O Nephew your grief is but folly, 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 Your gamefters will palm and will cog; But 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 Those faces want nature and spirit, And feem as cut out of a log; Those who toaft all the Family Royal, Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis, He 'd give-up for fweet Molly Mog. When the fmiles on each gueft, like her liquor, To be fure fhe 's a bit for the Vicar, OF BALL A D. F all the girls that e'er were feen, For charming face, and fhape, and mien, And what 's not fit to tell ye : Oh! the turn'd neck, and fmooth white skin, Of lovely dearest Nelly! For many a fwain it well had been Had the ne'er been at Calai-. For For when as Nelly came to France Acrofs the Tuilleries each glance: For charming Nell to bufs her. The ladies were with rage provok'd, The men look'd arch, as Nelly strok'd, And pufs her tail erected. 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, Then |