My heart forbodes that I'm betray'd, Daphnis, I fear, is ever gone; The youth stepp'd forth with hafty pace, 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 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 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. 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, *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 distraction, And nothing can give fatisfaction Comes Cupid and gives me a jog, Thofe 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 fmiles on each gueft, like her liquor, To be fure fhe 's a bit for the Vicar, OF BALLA D. F all the girls that e'er were seen, 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 |