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My heart forbodes that I'm betray'd,

Daphnis, I fear, is ever gone;
Last night with Delia's dog he play'd,
Love by fuch trifles first comes on.
Now, now, dear fhepherd, come away,
My tongue would now my heart obey.
Ah, Chloe, thou art won!

The youth stepp'd forth with hafty pace,
And found where wishing Chloe lay;
Shame fudden lighten'd in her face,
Confus'd, the knew not what to say.
At last, in broken words, the cry'd;
To-morrow you in vain had try'd,
But I am loft to-day!

THE COQUETTE MOTHER AND

DAUGHTER.

A S O N G.

T the clofe of the day,

AT

When the bean-flowerand hay

Breath'd odours in every wind;

Love enliven'd the veins

Of the damfels and fwains;

Each glance and each action was kind.

Molly, wanton and free,

Kifs'd, and fate on each knee,

Fond extafy swam in her eyes.

See,

See, thy mother is near:

Hark! the calls thee to hear

What age and experience advise.

Haft thou feen the blithe dove
Stretch her neck to her love,

All gloffy with purple and gold?
If a kifs he obtain,

She returns it again :

What follows, you need not be told.

Look ye, mother, the cry'd,
You inftruct me in pride,

And men by good-manners are won.

She who trifles with all

Is lefs likely to fall

Than the who but trifles with one.

Pr'ythee, Molly, be wise,

Left by fudden furprize

Love should tingle in every vein :

Take a fhepherd for life,

And when once you 're a wife,

You fafely may trifle again.

Molly smiling reply'd,

Then I'll foon be a bride;

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

And trifled no more with the rest.

MOLLY

MOLLY

OR, THE

MOG:

FAIR MAID OF THE INN.

A BALLA D *.

SAYS my Uncle, I pray you difcover

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;
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 beft at a clog;
But I am not fo easily frighted
From loving of fweet Molly Mog.
The school-boy's defire is a play-day;
The school-master's joy is to flog;
The milk-maid's delight is on May-day;
But mine is on fweet 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: 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 I envy them none of their riches,
So I may win fweet Molly Mog.

The heart when half wounded is changing,
It here and there leaps like a frog;
But my heart can never be ranging,
'Tis fo fix'd upon fweet Molly Mog.
Who follows all ladies of pleasure,
In pleasure is thought but a hog;
All the fex cannot give fo good measure
Of joys, as my fweet Molly Mog.

I feel I'm in love to distraction,
My fenfes all loft in a fog;

And nothing can give fatisfaction
But thinking of fweet 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 fweet 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.

Thofe

Those faces want nature and spirit,

And feem 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 fweet Molly Mog.

Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis,
And writing another Eclogue;
Both his Phyllis and fair Amaryllis

He 'd give-up for fweet Molly Mog.

When the fmiles on each gueft, like her liquor,
Then jealoufy fets me agog;

To be fure fhe 's a bit for the Vicar,
And fo I fhall lofe Molly Mog.

OF

BALLA D.

F all the girls that e'er were seen,
There 's none so fine as Nelly,

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

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