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 vicar,
And so I shall lose Molly Mog.
A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILIES.
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 sow,
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;
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!
