The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Molly Mog

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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:
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 vicar,
And so I shall lose Molly Mog.

  1. The Rose Inn, at Ockingham in Berkshire.