TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND. 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. Roll up and down our ships at sea. Then if we write not by each post, By Dutchmen, or by wind: The King, with wonder and surprise, Will swear the seas grow bold; But let him know, it is our tears Should foggy Opdam chance to know The Dutch would scorn so weak a fce, 5 For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? 30 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, 35 Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. We were undone when we left you. But now our fears tempestuous grow, Whilst you, regardless of our woe, 40 Perhaps, permit some happier man When any mournful tune you hear, As if it sigh'd with each man's care, Think then how often love we've made In justice you cannot refuse All those designs are but to prove And now we've told you all our loves, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears: 60 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: But, O, the change! the winds grow high; She turns her head, and wings her flight; "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 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. "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, 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: 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. 25 30 35 40 THE POET AND THE ROSE. A FABLE. I HATE the man who builds his name Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Thus scribblers, covetous of praise, Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature, Might I supply that envied place, With never-fading love! There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye, Involved in fragrance, burn and die! 5 10 15 20 "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." "Spare your comparisons," replied An angry Rose, who grew beside; 30 35 |