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[EARL OF DORSET.]

To all you ladies now at land,*
We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write :

The Muses now, and Neptune too
We must implore to write to you.
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

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.
With a fa, &c.

Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or the wind:

Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day.
With a fa, &c.

* Written at sea, in the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before an engagement.

The king with wonder and surprise
Will swear the seas grow bold,
Because the tides will higher rise
Than ere they did of old;

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.
With a fa, &c.

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.
With a fa, &c.

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.
With a fa, &c.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in ev'ry 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.
With a fa, &c.

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
Ourselves more worthy of your love.
With a fa, &c.

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,

We have too much of that at sea.

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[E. MOORE.]

You tell me I'm handsome, I know not how true,
And easy, and chatty, and good-humour'd too,
That my lips are as red as the rose-bud in June
And my voice, like the nightingale's, sweetly in tune:
All this has been told me by twenty before,
But he that would win me, must flatter me more.

If beauty from virtue receive no supply,

Or prattle from prudence, how wanting am I!
My ease and good-humour short raptures will bring,
And my voice, like the nightingale's, knows but a
spring.

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,
For Chloe, the wanton, can rival me there:
"Tis virtue alone that makes beauty look gay,
And brightens good-humour, as sunshine the day;
For that if you love me, your flame shall be true,
And I, in my turn, may be taught to love too.

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[E. MOORE.]

HARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb!
"Come, Lucy," it cries, " come away !
The grave of my Collin has room,
To rest thee beside his cold clay."

I come, my dear Shepherd, I come;

Ye friends and companions adieu,

I haste to my Collin's dark home,
To die on his bosom so true."

All mournful the midnight bell ring,
When Lucy, sad Lucy arose ;
And forth to the green-turf she sprung,
Where Collin's pale ashes repose,
All wet with the night's chilling dew,
Her bosom embrac'd the cold ground,
While stormy winds over her blew,

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?

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