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In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise ;
For sure no minutes bring us more content
Than those in pleasing useful studies spent.

I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteely, but not great ;
As much as I could moderately spend ;
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
Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven.
A frugal plenty should my table spread ;
With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread ;
Enough to satisfy, and something more,
To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and, as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.

“ 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 feet, 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,
We must implore to write to you.

With a fa la, la, la, la.

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For though the Muses should prove kind,

And fill our empty brain ; let if rough Neptune rouse the wind,

To wave the azure main,

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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.

With a fa, &c.

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.

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 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 :

'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 wo,
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 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.

With a fa, &c.

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