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From an OFFICER to his MISTRESS.

To the Tune of, To you fair Ladies.



O Country Quarters now confind,

From Upton Town I write,
Why can't my Body, like my Mind,

To Katy take its Flight?
Ah, Katy ! if a wish could do,
I would be quarter'd soon on you.

With a Fa, la, la, la.


While I sigh here, my Love-lick Heart

Is left with Thee behind;
Alas! why should our Bodies part,

When both our Souls are join'd:
My Body to my PRINCE is true,";
My Soul its Orders takes from You.

With 4 Fa, &c.

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When heavy beat of dull Tattoo

Commands the Soldier home,
The Hopes, my Dreams will be of you,

Give Musick to the Drum;
Wak'd by the Morning Reveille,
I only wake to think of Thee.

With a Fa, &c.


My blooming Hopes of seeing you,

Are wither'd in my Prime, Confin'd to wait for a Review,

Ah, why is this the Time ?, What is the dull Review to me, When Katy is not there to see?

With a Fa, &c.


But once releas'd from this Command,

I'll Ay to thy dear Breast,

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As the swift * Carrier springs from Hand,

To his forsaken Neft;
Then ev'ry Night, and ev'ry Kiss
Shall pay my long Arrears of Bliss.

With a Fa, &c.

HORACE's Prayer to APOLLO.

Quid Dedicatum poscit Apollinem,

Hor. Lib 1. Ode 31.


HILST to the God my purple Clusters flow,

What would the Poet have the God bestow?
He covets not the Stores SARDINI A yields,
The bending Harvest of her yellow Fields;
Nor fleecy Flocks C A L A BR I A's Mountains breed,
Nor lowing Herds her fertile Pastures feed,
Nor verdant Lawns where Lyris gently flows,
And eats his winding Channel as he goes.
No coftly Ornaments of Iv'ry, born
From India, sha'll my humble Roof adorn.
The Gold shall sleep within its Native Mine,
Nor shall the Gem for me be taught to shine.

* The Carrier is a fort of Pidgeon, usod in Turkey for Carrying Letters.



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Let FORTUNE's Minions make their Presses flow,
And crowd the precious Stores in Vaults below.
Who ploughs the Ocean with auspicious Sails,
And bribes the Gods to send him prosp'rous Gales;
Let him truck SYRIAN Odours, Balins and Spice,
For Wine dear-purchas'd to supply his Vice;
Ler him in foaming Brimmers chear his Soul,
And oft recruit his oft exhausted Bowl.

Give me a wholsome Sallad from the Fields,
The artless Food that Nature frankly yields;
Health be my Relish, and Content my Store,
Grant me this humble Wish, I ask no more.
Only, Thou God of Numbers, and the trembling Lyre,
Do Thou my Musick and my Verse inspire;
And when resistless Time at length shall shed
His hoary Honours on my wither'd Head,
Still may the pleasing Vein profusely flow,
Still may thy heay’nly Fire within this Bosom glow.


To a LADY, on her PARROT.


HEN Nymphs were coy, and Love could not

The Gods disguis'd were seldome known to fail :
LED A was chast, but yet a feather'd JO VE
Surpriz’d the Fair, and caught her how to love.
There's no Celestial but his Heaven would quit;.
For any Form which might to thee admit.
See how the wanton BIR D at ev'ry Glance,
Swells his glad Plumes, and feels an am'rous Trance.
The QUEEN of Beauty has forfook the DOVE,
Henceforth the PARROT be the BIRD of Love.

ODE for St. CECILI A's Day at OXFOR D.


ET all CECILIA's Praise proclaim,

Employ the Echo in her Name,
Hark how the Flutes and Trumpets raise,
At bright CECILIA's Name their Lays;
The Organ labours in her Praise.



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