True as the needle to the pole,

Or as the dial to the sun; Constant as gliding waters roll,

Whose swelling tides obey the moon ; From every other charmer free, My life and love shall follow thee.

The lamb the flowery thyme devours,
The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel in shady bowers

Of verdant Spring her note renews;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire.

Nature must change her beauteous face,
And vary as the seasons rise;
As winter to the spring gives place,
Summer th' approach of autumn flies :
No change on love the seasons bring,
Love only knows perpetual spring.

Devouring time, with stealing pace,
Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow;
And marble tow'rs and gates of brass,
In his rude march he levels low :
But time, destroying far and wide,
Love from the soul can ne'er divide.

Death only, with his cruel dart,

The gentle godhead can remove; And drive him from the bleeding heart To mingle with the bless'd above, Where, known to all his kindred train, He finds a lasting rest from pain.

Love, and his sister fair, the Soul,
Twin-born, from heav'n together came:
Love will the universe controul,

When dying seasons lose their name;
Divine abodes shall own his pow'r,

When time and death shall be no more.

'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING.

JOHN GAY.

Born 1688-Died 1732.

'Twas when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
A damsel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclin'd:
Wide o'er the foaming billows

She cast a

wishful look,

Her head was crown'd with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.

Twelve months are

gone

and over

And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou ventrous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean
And let a lover rest;

Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?

The merchant robb'd of pleasure
Views tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure
To losing of my dear?

Should you some coast be laid on
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'll find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.

How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why then beneath the water
Do hideous rocks remain?
No eyes those rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wand'ring lover
And leave the maid to weep.

All melancholy lying

Thus wail'd she for her dear, Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear; When o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she 'spied; Then like a lily drooping

She bow'd her head and died.

MOLLY MOG,

OR THE FAIR MAID OF THE INN.

JOHN GAY.

Says my uncle, I pray you discover
What hath been the cause of your woes,
That you pine and you whine like a lover?'
'I have 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 of sweet Molly Mog.

The schoolboy's desire is a play-day, The schoolmaster's joy is to flog; The milk-maid's delight is on May-day, But mine is on sweet Molly Mog.

Will-a-Wisp leads the traveller gadding Through 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 drawing-room 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.