[EARL OF DORSET.] To all you ladies now at land,* But first would have you understand The Muses now, and Neptune too For though the Muses should prove kind, To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen and ink, and we Then if we write not by each post, Our tears we'll send a speedier way, * Written at sea, in the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before an engagement. The king with wonder and surprise But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. With a fa, &c. Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story; The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their post at Goree : For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind. With a fa, &c. Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: "Tis 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? But now our fears tempestuous grow, Sit careless at a play : Perhaps permit some happier man When any mournful tune you hear, 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, To think of our distress, When we, for hopes of honour, lose Our certain happiness ; All those designs are but to prove And now we've told you all our loves, Let's hear of no inconstancy, We have too much of that at sea. [E. MOORE.] You tell me I'm handsome, I know not how true, If beauty from virtue receive no supply, Or prattle from prudence, how wanting am I! For charms such as these then, your praises give o'er, To love me for life, you must love me for more. Then talk to me not of a shape or an air, [E. MOORE.] HARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb! I come, my dear Shepherd, I come; Ye friends and companions adieu, I haste to my Collin's dark home, All mournful the midnight bell ring, And night-ravens croak'd all around. "How long, my lov'd Collin," she cried, "How long must thy Lucy complain ? How long shall the grave my love hide? How long ere it join us again? |