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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;
And so I shall lose Molly Mog.
A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILIES.
MY passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad,
Or like a March hare mad.
Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her ;
I love her still the better.
Pert as a pearmonger 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 ;
Sleek as a mouse before.
Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;
But as a groat now thin!
I, melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to peep;
Sound as a top can sleep.
She laughs to see me pale ;
And brisk as bottled ale.
The God of Love, at her approach,
Is busy as a bee !
Are smit, and sigh like me.
The fine men crowd about her:
Shall I be, if without her.
O were we join'd together!
And lighter than a feather.
No drum was ever tighter ;
And not the sun is brighter.
As soft as pap her kisses are :
Methinks I taste them yet;
Her eyes as black as jet.
Her pretty hand invites ;
Sharp as a needle are her words ;
bites. Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest :
Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:
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 !
And richer than a Jew.
I'm dull as any post :
And warm as any toast.
You'll know me truer than a die,
And wish me better sped, Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.
Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear,
And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.
NEW. NEWGATE'S GARLAND:
Being a new Ballad, showing how Mr. Jonathan Wild's
Throat was cut from Ear to Ear, with a Penknife, by Mr. Blake, alias Blueskin, the bold Highwayman, as he stood at his Trial in the Old Bailey, 1725.
TO THE TUNE OF THE CUTPURSE.
YE gallants of Newgate, whose fingers are nice
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 ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.
When to the Old Bailey this Blueskin was led,
Then, hopeless of life,
He drew his penknife,
III. Some III.
Some say there are courtiers of highest renown,
Let them all take their swing,
To pillage the king, And get a blue riband instead of a string. Now Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.
IV. Knaves, of old, to hide guilt by their cunning in
ventions, Call'd briberies grants, and plain robberies pensions : Physicians and lawyers (who take their degrees To be learned rogues) call’d their pilfering fees.
Since this happy day
Now ev'ry man may Rob (as safe as in office) upon the highway. For Blueskin's sharp penknife hath set you at ease, And ev'ry 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 ev'ry man round me may rob, if he please.