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, Of verdant Spring her note renews; Nature must change her beauteous face, Devouring time, with stealing pace, 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, When dying seasons lose their name; 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 All on a rock reclin'd: She cast a wishful look, Her head was crown'd with willows, Twelve months are gone and over And nine long tedious days; Ah! what's thy troubled motion The merchant robb'd of pleasure Should you some coast be laid on How can they say that nature 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 O nephew! your grief is but folly, 'I know that by wits 'tis recited 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, 'Who follows all ladies of pleasure, 'I feel I'm in love to distraction, 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. |