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A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE*.
WRITTEN BY MR. CONGREVE.
WHEN, as Corruption hence did go,
And left the nation free;
Without a place or fee :
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.
And four fair suits he wore :
All blotch'd and spotted o’er:
Sure cards he has for ev'ry thing,
Which well court-cards they name ;
To help out a bad game :
* On the subject of this ballad, see a letter from Arbuthnot to Swift, dated Nov. 8, 1726.
IV. When IV.
When two and two were met of old,
Though they ne'er meant to marry,
And call'd a party quarree :
The commoner, and knight, the peer,
Men of all ranks and fame,
To propagate their name;
When patients lie in piteous case,
In comes th' apothecary;
Non debes quadrillare.
The Muscovite grow louder;
Would want both ball and powder ;
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:
A party late at Cambray met,
Which drew all Europe's eyes;
The quadruple allies :
And now, God save this noble realm,
And God save eke Hanover;
When as the king goes over:
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.
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. 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 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:
• The Rose inn, at Ockingham in Berkshire.
But I envy them none of their riches,
So I may win sweet Molly Mog.
It here and there leaps like a frog:
'Tis so fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog. Who follows all ladies of pleasure,
In pleasure is thought but a hog:
Of joys, as my sweet Molly Mog.
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;
Of nothing but sweet Molly Mog.
I wish I were hang'd like a dog,
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,