The youth stepp'd forth with hasty pace,
And found where wishing Chloe lay,
Shame sudden lighten'd in her face,

Confus'd, she knew not what to say.
At last, in broken words, she cry'd;
"To morrow you in vain had try'd,
But I am lost to day!"

THE

COQUETTE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

A SONG.

AT the close of the day,

When the bean-flower and hay
Breath'd odours in every wind;

Love enliven'd the veins

Of the damsels and swains;

Each glance and each action was kind.

Molly, wanton and free,
Kiss'd, and sate on each knee,

Fond ecstasy swam in her eyes.
See, thy mother is near;
Hark! she calls thee to hear

What age and experience advise. "Hast thou seen the blithe dove Stretch her neck to her love,

All glossy with purple and gold? If a kiss he obtain,

She returns it again:

What follows, you need not be told." "Look ye, mother," she cry'd, "You instruct me in pride,

And men by good-manners are won. She who trifles with all

Is less likely to fall

Than she who but trifles with one."
"Pr'ythee, Molly, be wise,
Lest by sudden surprise.

Love should tingle in every vein
Take a shepherd for life,
And, when once you're a wife,
You safely may trifle again."

Molly smiling reply'd,
"Then I'll soon be a bride;

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

And trifled no more with the rest."

MOLLY MOG;

OR, THE FAIR MAID OF THE INN,
A BALLAD'.

SAYS my uncle, "I pray you discover

What hath been the cause of your woes; Why you pine and you whine like a lover!"

"I have seen Molly Mog of the Rose."

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 ived to a very advanced age, dying so lately as the month of March, 1766.-See the New Foundling Hospital for Wit, vol. v. p. 45,

"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 best at a clog;
But I am not so easily frighted

From loving of sweet Molly Mog.
"The school-boy's desire 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 sweet Molly Mog.
"Will-a-wisp leads the traveller gadding
Thro' ditch, and thro' quagmire, and bog;
But no light can set me a-madding

Like the eyes of my sweet Molly Mog.
"For guineas in other men's breeches
Your gamesters will palm and will cog;
But I envy them none of their riches,
So I may win sweet 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 so fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog.
"Who follows all ladies of pleasure,

In pleasure is thought but a hog;
All the sex cannot give so good measure
Of joys, as my sweet Molly Mog.
"I feel I'm in love to distraction,

My senses all lost in a fog;
And nothing can give satisfaction

But thinking of sweet 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 sweet 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 sweet Molly Mog. "Those faces want nature and spirit,

And seem 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 sweet Molly Mog.
"Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis,
And writing another eclogue;
Both his Phyllis and fair Amaryllis

He'd give up for sweet Molly Mog. "When she smiles on each guest, like her liquor, . Then jealousy sets me agog;

To be sure she's a bit for the vicar,
And so I shall lose Molly Mog."

BALLAD

Or all the girls that e'er were seen,
There's none so 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 swain it well had been

Had she ne'er been at Calai.

For when as Nelly came to France,
(Invited by her cousins)
Across the Tuilleries each glance
Kill'd Frenchmen by whole dozens.
The king, as he at dinner sat,

Did beckon to his hussar,
And bid him bring his tabby cat,

For charming Nell to buss her.
The ladies were with rage provok'd,
To see her so respected;

The men look'd arch, as Nelly strok'd,
And puss her tail erected.
But not a man did look employ,
Except on pretty Nelly;
Then said the duke de Villeroy,
"Ah! qu'elle est bien jolie!"
But who's that great philosopher,
That carefully looks at her?
By his concern, it should appear
The fair-one is his daughter.
"Ma foy!" (quoth then a courtier sly)
"He on his child does leer too:
I wish he has no mind to try

What some papas will here do."
The courtiers all, with one accord,
Broke out in Nelly's praises,
Admir'd her rose, and lys sans farde,
(Which are your termes Françoises).
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 saw this charming Nelly,

Where shameless 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 resign'd her place,
And left the stone she stood on.
Were Nelly's figure mounted there,
"Twould put down all th' Italian :
Lord! how those foreigners would stare!
But I should turn Pygmalion:
For, spite of lips, and eyes, and mien,
Me nothing can delight so,

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

A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE.

WHEN as corruption hence did go,
And left the nation free;
When Ay said ay, and No said no,
Without or place or fee;
Then Satan, thinking things went ill,
Sent forth his spirit, call'd Quadrille.
Quadrille, quadrille, &c,

Kings, queens, and knaves, made up his pack,
And four fair suits 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, statesman-like, calls in the king,
To help out a bad game ;
But, if the parties manage ill,
The king is forc'd to lose 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 full,

When the good husband's at quadrille, &c.
When patients lie in piteous case,

In comes th' apothecary;
And to the doctor cries, "Alas!

Non debes quadrillare:"

The patient dies without a pill:
For why?-The doctor's at quadrille, &c.
Should France and Spain again grow loud,
The Muscovite grow louder;
Britain, to curb her neighbours proud,
Would want both ball and powder;
Must want both sword and gun to kill:
For why?-The general's at quadrille, &c.
The king of late drew forth his sword,
(Thank God, 'twas not in wrath!)
And made, of many a 'squire and lord,
An unwash'd knight of Bath:

What are their feats of arms and skill?
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 somebody took something ill,
So broke this party at quadrille, &c.

And now God save this noble realm,

And God save eke Hanover;
And God save those who hold the helm,
When as the king goes over;
But let the king go where he will,
His subjects must play at quadrille,

Quadrille, quadrille, &c.

A NEW SONG

OF NEW SIMILES.

My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;

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 sor,
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber, could see
The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,

And eye her o'er and o'er ;
Lean as a rake with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk 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 she, insensible of that,

Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled-ale.

The god of Love, at her approach,
Is busy as a bee;

Hearts, sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ay me! as thick as hops or hail,

The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her.

Straight 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 Sun is brighter.
As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,

Her eyes as black as jet :

As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
Her pretty hand invites ;

Sharp as a needle are her words;
Her wit, like pepper, bites:

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as a globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee;
And happy as a king
Good Lord! how all men envy'd me!
She lov'd like any thing.

But, false as Hell! she, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her sex must do ;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru!
Great as an emperor should I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;
Let us, like burs, together stick,
And warm as any toast.

SHEWING HOW MR. JONATHAN WILD'S THROAT WAS CUT
FROM EAR TO EAR WITH A PENKNIFE, BY MR. BLAKE,
ALIAS BLUE SKIN, THE BOLD HIGHWAYMAN, AS HE
STOOD AT HIS TRIAL IN THE OLD-BAILEY, 1725.
To the tune of--The Cut-purse.

YE gallants of Newgate, whose fingers are nice,
In diving in pockets, or cogging of dice;
Ye sharpers so rich, who can buy off the noose;
Ye honester poor rogues, who die in your shoes;
Attend and draw near,

Good news ye shall hear,

How Jonathan's throat was cut from ear to ear; How Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And every man round me may rob, if he please. When to the Old-Bailey this Blueskin was led, He held up his hand, his indictment was read, Loud rattled his chains, near him Jonathan stood, For full forty pounds was the price of his blood. Then, hopeless of life,

He drew his penknife,

Now every man may

Rob (as safe as in office) upon the highway. For Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And every man round me may rob, if he please. Some cheat in the customs, some rob the excise, But he who robs both is esteemed most wise. Churchwardens, too prudent to hazard the halter, As yet only venture to steal from the altar: But now to get gold,

They may be more bold,

And rob on the highway, since Jonathan's cold. For Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And every man round me may rob, if he please.

MISCELLANIES.

PROLOGUE,

DESIGNED FOR THE PASTORAL TRAGEDY OF DIONE.

THERE
HERE was a time (O were those days renew'd!)
Ere tyrant-laws had woman's will subdued;
Then Nature rul'd; and Love, devoid of art,
Spoke the consenting language of the heart.
Love uncontroll'd insipid, poor delight!
'Tis the restraint that whets our appetite.
Behold the beasts, who range the forests free;
Behold the birds, who fly from tree to tree;
In their amours see Nature's power appear!
And do they love? Yes-one month in the year.
Were these the pleasures of the golden reign?
And did free Nature thus instruct the swain ?
I envy not, ye nymphs, your amorous bowers:
Such harmless swains!-I'm e'en content with ours.
But yet there's something in these sylvan scenes,
That tells our fancy what the lover means.
Name but the mossy bank, and moon-light grove,
Is there a heart that does not beat with love?

To night we treat you with such country-fare:
Then, før your lover's sake, our author spare.
He draws no Hemskirk boors, or home-bred clowns,
But the soft shepherds of Arcadia's downs.

When Paris on the three his judgment pass'd; I hope you'll own, the shepherd show'd his taste: And Jove, all know, was a good judge of beauty, Who made the nymph Calisto break her duty; Then was the country-nymph no awkward thing. See what strange revolutions Time can bring!

Yet still methinks an author's fate I dread, Were it not safer beaten paths to tread Of Tragedy, than o'er wide heaths to stray, And, seeking strange adventures, lose his way? No trumpet's clangor makes his heroine start, And tears the soldier from her bleeding heart. He, foolish bard! nor pomp nor show regards. Without the witness of a hundred guards His lovers sigh their vows.-If sleep should take ye, He has no battle, no loud drum, to wake ye. What, no such shifts?-there's danger in't, 'tis true; Yet spare him, as he gives you something new.

CONTEMPLATION ON NIGHT. WHETHER amid the gloom of night I stray, Or my glad eyes enjoy revolving day, Still Nature's various face informs my sense, Of an all-wise, all-powerful Providence.

[night,

When the gay Sun first breaks the shades of And strikes the distant eastern hills with light, Colour returns, the plains their livery wear, And a bright verdure clothes the smiling year; The blooming flowers with opening beauties glow, And grazing flocks their milky fleeces show; The barren cliffs with chalky fronts arise, And a pure azure arches o'er the skies. But, when the gloomy reign of Night returns, Stript of her fading pride all Nature mourns: The trees no more their wonted verdure boast, But weep in dewy tears their beauty lost: No distant landscapes draw our curious eyes; Wrapt in Night's robe the whole creation lies.

Yet still, e'en now, while darkness clothes the land,
We view the traces of th' Almighty hand;
Millions of stars in Heaven's wide vault appear,
And with new glories hangs the boundless sphere:
The silver Moon her western couch forsakes,
And o'er the skies her nightly circle makes;
Her solid globe beats back the sunny rays,
And to the world her borrow'd light repays.

Whether those stars, that twinkling lustre send,
Are suns, and rolling worlds those suns attend,
Man may conjecture, and new schemes declare;
Yet all his systems but conjectures are.
But this we know, that Heaven's eternal King,
Who bade this universe from nothing spring,
Can at his word bid numerous worlds appear,
And rising worlds th' all-powerful word shall hear.
When to the western main the Sun descends,
To other lands a rising day he lends;
The spreading dawn another shepherd spies,
The wakeful flocks from their warın folds arise;
Refresh'd, the peasant seeks his early toil,
And bids the plough correct the fallow soil.
While we in sleep's embraces waste the night,
The climes oppos'd enjoy meridian light:
And when those lands the busy Sun forsakes,
With us again the rosy morning wakes;
In lazy sleep the night rolls swift away,
And neither clime laments his absent ray.

When the pure soul is from the body flown, No more shall Night's alternate reign be known: The Sun no more shall rolling light bestow, But from th' Almighty streams of glory flow. Oh, may some nobler thought my soul employ, Than empty, transient, sublunary joy! The stars shall drop, the Sun shall lose his flame; But thou, O GOD, for ever shine the same.

THOUGHT ON ETERNITY.

ERE the foundations of the world were laid,
Ere kindling light th' Almighty word obey'd,
Thou wert; and when the subterraneous flame
Shall burst its prison, and devour this frame,
From angry Heaven when the keen lightning flies,
When fervent heat dissolves the inelting skies,
Thou still shalt be; still as thou wert before,
And know no change, when time shall be no more.
O endless thought! divine Eternity
Th' immortal soul shares but a part of thee;"
For thou wert present when our life began,
When the warm dust shot up in breathing man.

Ah! what is life? with ills encompass'd round,
Amidst our hopes, Fate strikes the sudden wound:
To day the statesman of new honour dreams,
To morrow Death destroys his airy schemes;
Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confin'd?
Think, all that treasure thou must leave behind;
Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazon'd hearse,
And all thy hoards with lavish hand disperse.
Should certain Fate th' impending blow delay,
Thy mirth will sicken, and thy bloom decay;
Then feeble age will all thy nerves disarm,
No more thy blood its narrow channels warm.
Who then would wish to stretch this narrow span,
To suffer life beyond the date of man?

The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim, And life regards but as a fleeting dream:

She longs to wake, and wishes to get free, To launch from Earth into Eternity.

For, while the boundless theme extends our thought, Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought.

AN

EPIGRAMMATICAL EXPOSTULATION'. FROM Mohock and from Hawkubite,

Good Lord, deliver me!

Who wander through the streets by night, Committing cruelty.

They slash our sons with bloody knives,

And on our daughters fall;

And if they ravish not our wives,
We have good luck withal.

Coaches and chairs they overturn,
Nay, carts most easily:

Therefore from Gog, and eke Magog,
Good Lord, deliver me!

EPITAPH OF BY-WORDS.

HERE lies a round woman, who thought mighty

odd

Every word she e'er heard in this church about God. To convince her of God, the good dean did endeavour,

But still in her heart she held Nature more clever.
Tho' he talk'd much of virtue her head always run
Upon something or other, she found better fun.
For the dame, by her skill in affairs astronomical,
Imagin'd, to live in the clouds was but comical.
In this world, she despis'd every soul she met here,
And, now she's in t' other, she thinks it but queer.

MY OWN EPITAPH.

LIFE is a jest, and all things show it: I thought so once, but now I know it.

A MOTTO

FOR THE OPERA OF MUTIUS SCÆVOLA2.

Wno here blames words, or verses, songs, or singers, Like Mutius Scævola will burn his fingers.

WINE:

A POEM.

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt, Que scribuntur aquæ potoribus.

Or happiness terrestrial, and the source
Whence human pleasures flow, sing, heavenly
Muse;

Of sparkling juices, of th' enlivening grape,
Whose quickening taste adds vigour to the soul,
Whose sovereign power revives decaying Nature,
And thaws the frozen blood of hoary Age,
A kindly warmth diffusing;-youthful fires
Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue

1 Annexed, in 1712, to Gay's Wonderful Prophecy, &c. a humorous treatise on the Mohocks.

2 An opera by Mr. Rolli, performed in 1721.

His wrinkled visage, ghastly wan before:
Cordial restorative to mortal man,
With copious hand by bounteous gods bestow'd!
Bacchus divine, aid my adventurous song,
That with no middle fight intends to soar:
Inspir'd, sublime, on Pegasean wing,
By thee upborne, I draw Miltonic air.

When fumy vapours clog our loaded brows
With furrow'd frowns; when stupid, downcast eyes,
Th' external symptoms of remorse within,
Express our grief; or when in sullen dumps,
With head incumbent on expanded palm,
Moping we sit, in silent sorrow drown`d ·
Whether inveigling Hymen has trepann'd
Th' unwary youth, and tied the Gordian knot
Of jangling wedlock not to be dissolv'd;
Worry'd all day by loud Xantippe's din,
Who fails not to exalt him to the stars,
And fix him there among the branched crew
(Taurus and Aries, and Capricorn,
The greatest monsters of the Zodiac):
Or for the loss of anxious worldly pelf,

Or Cælia's scornful slights, and cold disdain,
Which check'd his amorous flame with coy repulse;
The worst events that mortals can befall:
By cares depress'd, in pensive hyppish mood,
With slowest pace the tedious minutes roll,
Thy charming sight, but much more charming gust,
New life incites, and warms our chilly blood.
Straight with pert looks, we raise our drooping fronts,
And pour in crystal pure, thy purer juice ;-
With cheerful countenance and steady hand
Raise it lip-high, then fix the spacious rim
To the expecting mouth ;-with grateful taste,
The ebbing wine glides swiftly o'er the tongue;
The circling blood with quicker motion flies:
Such is thy powerful influence, thou straight
Dispell'st those clouds, that, louring dark, eclips'd
The whilom glories of the gladsome face ;-
While dimpled cheeks, and sparkling, rolling eyes,
Thy cheering virtues and thy worth proclaim.
So mists and exhalations that arise

From hills or steamy lake, dusky or grey,
Prevail; till Phoebus sheds Titanian rays,
And paints their fleecy skirts with shining gold:
Unable to resist, the foggy damps,
That veil'd the surface of the verdant fields,
The Earth again in former beauty smiles;
At the god's penetrating beams disperse ;
In gaudiest livery drest, all gay and clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets repulse,
Scoff'd at, despis'd, in melancholic mood,
Joyless he wastes in sighs the lazy hours;
Till, reinforc'd by thy most potent aid,
He storms the breach, and wins the beauteous fort.
To pay thee homage, and receive thy blessing,
The British seaman quits his native shore,
And ventures through the trackless, deep abyss,
Plowing the ocean, while the upheav'd oak,
"With beaked prow, rides tilting o'er the waves;"
Shock'd by tempestuous jarring winds, she rolls
In dangers imminent, till she arrives [sence.
At those blest climes thou favour'st with thy pre-
Whether at Lusitania's sultry coast,
Or lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro,
Provence, or at the Celtiberian shores;
With gazing pleasure and astonishment
At Paradise (seat of our ancient sire)
He thinks himself arriv'd; the purple grapes,
In largest clusters pendant, grace the vines