Then might you see a painted ring

Of dames that stood by Nelly;
She like the pride of all the Spring,
And they, like Fleurs de Palais.
In Marli's gardens, and St. Clou,
I faw this charming Nelly,
Where fhameless nymphs, expos'd to view,
Stand naked in each allée:
But Venus had a brazen face
Both at Versailles and Meudon,
Or else she had refign'd her place,
And left the ftone fhe ftood on.

Were Nelly's figure mounted there,
'Twould put down all th' Italian:
Lord! how thofe foreigners would stare !
But I should turn Pygmalion
For, fpite of lips, and eyes, and mien,
Me nothing can delight fo,

As does that part that lies between
Her left-toe and her right-toe.

A

Ο Ν

QUADRILLE.

WH
THEN as corruption hence did go,

And left the nation free;

When Ay faid ay, and No faid no,
Without or place or fee;

Then Satan, thinking things went ill,
Sent forth his fpirit call'd Quadrille.

Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.

Kings, queens, and knaves, made up his pack,

And four fair fuits he wore;

His troops they were with red and black
All blotch'd and spotted o'er ;

And every house, go where you will,
Is haunted by this imp Quadrille, &c.
Sure cards he has for every thing,
Which well court-cards they name,
And, statesınan-like, calls-in the king,
To help out a bad game;
But, if the parties manage ill,

The king is forc'd to lofe Codille, &c.

When two and two were met of old,
Though they ne'er meant to marry,
They were in Cupid's books enroll'd,
And call'd a Partie Quarrée;

But now, meet when and where you will,
A Partie Quarrée is Quadrille, &c.

The commoner, and knight, and peer,

Men of all ranks and fame,

Leave to their wives the only care

To propagate their name;

And well that duty they fulfill,

When the good husband's at Quadrille, &c.

When patients lie in piteous cafe,

In comes th' Apothecary; And to the Doctor cries, Alas!

Non debes Quadrillare:

The

The patient dies without a pill:

For why? the Doctor 's at Quadrille, &c.

Should France and Spain again grow loud,
The Mufcovite grow louder;

Britain, to curb her neighbours proud,
Would want both ball and powder;
Muft want both fword and gun to kill:
For why? the General 's at Quadrille, &c.

The King of late drew forth his fword
(Thank God 'twas not in wrath),
And made, of many a 'fquire and lord,
An unwash'd Knight of Bath:

What are their feats of arms and fkill?
They're but nine parties at Quadrille, &c.

A party late at Cambray met,

Which drew all Europe's eyes;
'Twas call'd in Post-Boy and Gazette
The Quadruple Allies;

But fomebody took something ill,
So broke this party at Quadrille, &c.

And now God fave this noble realm,
And God fave eke Hanóver;

And God fave thofe who hold the helm,
When as the King goes over;
But let the King go where he will,
His fubjects muft play at Quadrille,

Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.

VOL. I.

T

A NEW

Α NEW SONG

O F NEW SIMILE S.

MY

Y paffion is as mustard strong;
I fit all fober fad ;

Drunk as a piper all day long,

Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For, though as drunk as David's fow,

I love her fill the better.

Pert as a pear-monger

I'd be,

If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber, could fee

The reft of womankind.

Like a stuck-pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er ;
Lean as a rake with fighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And foft as filk my skin,

My cheeks as fat as butter grown ;
But as a groat now thin!

1, melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to weep; But the, infenfible of that, Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,

She laughs to fee me pale;

And merry as a grig is grown,
And brifk as bottled-ale.

The God of Love at her approach
Is bufy as a bee;

Hearts, found as any bell or roach,
Are fmit and figh like me.
Ay me! as thick as hops or hail,
The fine men crowd about her;
But foon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

Strait as my leg her shape appears;
O were we join'd together!

My heart would be scot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the fun is brighter.

As foft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I tafte them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet :

As fmooth as glass, as white as curds,

Her pretty hand invites ;

Sharp as a needle are her words;

Her wit, like pepper, bites: