Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/446

440 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.

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! I, me-