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TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.
To all you ladies now at land,
We men at sea indite;
How hard it is to write:
And fill our empty brain;
To wave the azure main,
paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll
ир and down our ships at sea. Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
By Dutchmen, or by wind :
Will swear the seas grow bold;
Than e'er they did of old:
Our sad and dismal story;
And quit their fort at Goree:
For what resistance can they find
Let wind and weather do its worst,
Be you to us but kind;
No sorrow we shall find :
We throw a merry main;
But why should we in vain
And cast our hopes away;
Sit careless at a play;
That dies in every note;
For being so remote;
To think of our distress;
Our certain happiness :
All those designs are but to prove
60 And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears;
Some pity for our tears :
65 We have too much of that at sea.
THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.
CELIA and I the other day
10 That she would never miss one day A walk so fine, a sight so gay.
But, O, 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. 20
“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.
I HATE the man who builds his name
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, Ι
20 Might I supply that envied place,
With never-fading love!
More fragrant roses there :
With envy and despair!
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 ;
35 We lend you colour and perfume: