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A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE *,

WRITTEN BY MR. CONGREYE.

I.

When, as Corruption hence did go,

And left the nation free;
When Ay said Ay, and No said No,

Without a place or fee :
Then Satan, thinking things went ill,
Sent forth his spirit, call'a Quadrille,

Quadrille, Quadrille, &'c.

II.
Kings, qucens, and knaves made up his pack,

And four fair suits he wore :
His troops they are with red and black

All blotch'd and spotted o'er :
And ev'ry house, go where you will,
Is haunted by the imp Quadrille, &c.

III.

Sure cards he has for ev'ry thing,

Which well court-cards they name :
And, statesmen 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.

* On the subject of this ballad, see a letter from Dr. Arbuthnot to Dean Swift, dáted Nov. 8, 1726. N.

IV.
When two and two were met of old,

Though they ne'er meant to marry,
They were in. Cupid's books enrolld,

And call'd a party quarree:
But now, meet when and where you will,
A party quarree is Quadrille, &c.

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The commoner, and knight, the peer,

Men of all ranks and fame,
Leave to their wives the only care,

To propagate their name;
And well that duty they fulfil,
When the good husband's at Quadrille, &c.

VI.

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.

VII.

Sould 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 gen'ral's at Quadrille, &c.

VIII.

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.

IX.
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.

X.

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.

MOLLY MOG:

OR, THE FAIR MAID OF THE INN *,

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've seen Molly Mog of the Rose.

* The Rose inn, at Ockingham in Berkshire. H.

O nephewl 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 at best are' a clog : But I'm not so easily frighted;

From loving my sweet Molly Mog. The schoolboy's delight is a play-day ;

The schoolmaster's joy is to flog; The milkmaid's delight is on Mayday ;

But mine is on sweet Molly Mog. Will-o'-wisp leads the traveller a 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 drawingroom 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 Phillis,

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 vican

And so I shall lose Molly Mog.

VOL. X.XIV.

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