My heart forbodes that I'm betray'd, Daphnis, I fear, is ever gone; Last night with Delia's dog he play'd, The youth stepp'd forth with hafty pace, THE COQUETTE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. A SON G. T the clofe of the day, AT When the bean-flower and hay 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 ecstasy swam in her eyes. See, 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, fhe cry'd, And men by good-manners are won. She who trifles with all Is lefs likely to fall Than she who but trifles with one. Pr'ythee, Molly, be wife, Left by fudden furprise Love fhould tingle in every vein : Take a fhepherd for life, And when once you're a wife, You fafely may trifle again. Molly fmiling 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 reft. MOLLY MOLLY OR, THE MOG: FAIR MAID OF THE INN. SA A BALL_A_D.* AYS my uncle, I pray you discover This ballad was written on an inn-keeper's daughter at Oakingham in Berkshire, who in her youth was a celebrated beauty and toast: she lived to a very advanced age, dying fo lately as the month of March, 1766.-See the New Foundling Hospital for Wit, Vol. V. P. 45. Will 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. The heart when half wounded is changing, But my heart can never be ranging, And nothing can give fatisfaction Comes Cupid and gives me a jog, Those Those faces want nature and spirit, Those who toast all the Family Royal, Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis, He'd give up for fweet Molly Mog. When she smiles on each gueft, like her liquor, To be fure she's a bit for the Vicar, BAL L A D. OF all the girls that e'er were feen, There's none fo fine as Nelly, For charming face, and shape, and mien, And what's not fit to tell ye: Oh! the turn'd neck, and smooth white skin, Of lovely dearest Nelly! For many a fwain it well had been Had the ne'er been at Calai-. For |