And a cool rivulet run murmuring by; Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too, Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew: In some of these, as fancy should advise, A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend. Nor should the sons of poverty repine Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; And all that objects of true pity were Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; For that our Maker has too largely given To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor. But what's sufficient to make nature strong, "TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND." BY CHARLES SACKVILLE. [CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX, was born in 1637. He spent much of the earlier portion of his life in travelling, and, in the Dutch war, served on board the fleet, as a volunteer, under the Duke of York. He was made Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Charles II., and was sent on several embassies. He obtained the title of Earl of Middlesex on the death of his uncle, and that of Dorset on the death of his father. At the Revolution, he became Chamberlain to William III. He died in 1706. Though Sackville came into the possession of two fine estates while very young, he devoted himself to books and conversation. His poetical works are few, but they are elegant, and sometimes exhibit great powers; and he was not without talent as a satirist. The night previous to the engagement in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was blown up with all his crew, he wrote the following piece. ] 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, 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, Then, if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Our tears we'll send a speedier way; The tide shall bring them twice a-day. The king, with wonder and surprise, 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 ; 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: |