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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.
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 is 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 foe,

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
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 sigh'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

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

Our certain happiness :

All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.
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,
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,
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay.

But, O, the changed the winds grow high;
Impending tempests charge the sky;
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
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 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, 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.

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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,
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;
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,
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

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 ;
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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