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TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.

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To all

you

ladies now at land, We men at sea indite; But first would have

you

understana
How hard it is to write:
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
For though the Muses should prove kind,

And fill our empty brain;
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind

To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea.
Then if we write not by each post,

Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost

By Dutchmen, or by wind:
Our tears we'll send a speedier way;
The tide shall bring them twice a day.
The King, with wonder and surprise,

Will swear the seas grow bold;
Because the tides will higher rise,

Than e'er they did of old: But let him know, it

our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs.
Should foggy Opdam chance to know

Our sad and dismal story;
The Dutch would scorn so weak a fce,

And quit their fort at Goree:

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For what resistance can they find
From men who've left their hearts behind? 30

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Let wind and weather do its worst,
Be
you

to us but kind;
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,

No sorrow we shall find :
'T is then no matter how things go,
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.
To pass our tedious hours away,

We throw a merry main;
Or else at serious ombre play;

But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue ?
We were undone when we left you.
But now our fears tempestuous grow,

And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,

Sit careless at a play;
Perhaps, permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.
When any mournful tune you hear,

That dies in every note;
As if it siglı'd with each man's care,

For being so remote;
Think then how often love we've made
To
you,

when all those tunes were play'd. In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress;
When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness :

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All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.

60 And now we've told you all our loves,

And likewise all our fears;
In hopes this declaration moves

Some pity for our tears:
Let's hear of no inconstancy,

65 We have too much of that at sea.

DORSET.

THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.

CELIA and I the other day
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea :
The setting sun adorn'd the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost;
And, on the surface of the deep,

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The winds lay only not asleep:
The nymph did like the scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say,

10 That she would never miss one day A walk so fine, a sight so gay.

But, 0, the change! the winds grow high; Impending tempests charge the sky; The lightning flies, the thunder roars, 15 And big waves lash the frighten’d shores. Struck with the horror of the sight, She turns her head, and wings her flight; And, trembling, vows she 'll ne'er again Approach the shore, or view the main.

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“Once more at least look back," said I, “Thyself in that large glass descry: When thou art in good humour drest; When gentle reason rules thy breast; The sun upon the calmest sea

25 Appears not half so bright as thee: 'T is then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love: I bless my chain ; I hand my oar; Nor think on all I left on shore.

30 “ But when vain doubt and groundless fear Do that dear foolish bosom tear; When the big lip and watery eye Tell me, the rising storm is nigh; 'T is then, thou art yon angry main,

35 Deform’d by winds, and dash'd by rain. And the poor sailor, that must try Its fury, labours less than I.

“Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make, While love and fate still drive me back: 40 Forced to dote on thee thy own way, I chide thee first, and then obey: Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh, I with thee, or without thee, die." PRIOR.

THE POET AND THE ROSE.

A FABLE.

I HATE the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame:
Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own.

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Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,

5 Think slander can transplant the bays. Beauties and bards have equal pride; With both all rivals are decried. Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature, Must call her sister awkward creature; 10 For the kind flattery's sure to charm, When we some other nymph disarm.

As in the cool of early day, A poet sought the sweets of May, The garden's fragrant breath ascends, 15 And every stalk with odour bends; A rose he pluck'd, he gazed, admired, Thus singing, as the Muse inspired : “Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:

How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envied place,

With never-fading love!
There, Phenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die !
“Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find 25

More fragrant roses there :
I see thy withering head reclined,

With envy and despair!
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love."

30 “Spare your comparisons," replied An angry Rose, who grew beside ; “Of all mankind you should not flout us ! What can a poet do without us ? In every love-song Roses bloom ; We lend you colour and perfume:

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