A LETTER to CORINNA from a CAPTAIN in Country Quarters. MY earliest flame, to whom I owe All that a captain needs to know; Dress, and quadrille, and air, and chat, Lewd songs, loud laughter, and all that; Arts that have widows oft subdued, And never fail'd to win a prude; Think, charmer, how I live forlorn At quarters, from Corinna torn. Nor more distress the cornet feels From gruel, and Ward's popish pills. What shall I do now you're away, To kill that only foe, the day? The landed 'squire, and dull freeholder, Are sure no comrades for a soldier; To drink with parsons all day long, Misaubin tells me wou'd be wrong: Sober advice, and Curl's Dutch whore I've read, 'till I can read no more. At noon I rise, and strait alarm A sempstress' shop, or country farm; Repuls'd, my next pursuit is a'ter The parson's wife, or landlord's daughter: At market oft for game I search, Oft at assemblies, oft at church, And plight my faith and gold to-boot; Yet demme if a soul will do't — In short our credit's sunk so low, Since troops were kept o'foot for shew, She that for soldiers once run mad, Is turn'd republican, egad! And when I boast my feats, the shrew Asks who was slain the last review. Know then, that I and captain Trueman Resolve to keep a miss — in common: Not her, among the batter'd lasses, Such as our friend Toupét caresses, But her, a nymph of polish'd sense, Which pedants call impertinence: Train'd up to laugh, and drink, and swear, And railly with the prettiest air — Amidst our frolicks and carouses How shall we pity wretched spouses! But where can this dear soul be found, In garret high, or under ground? If so divine a fair there be, Charming Corinna, thou art she. But oh! what motives can persuade Belles, to prefer a rural shade, In this gay month, when pleasures bloom, The park, the play — the drawing room — Lo! birthnights upon birthnights tread, Term is begun, the lawyer fee'd; My friend the merchant, let me tell ye, Calls in his way to Farinelli; Add that my sattin gown and watch Some unfledg'd booby 'squire may catch, Who, charm'd with his delicious quarry, May first debauch me, and then marry; Never was season more befitting Since conv—ns last were sitting. And shall I leave dear Charing-cross, And let two boys my charms ingross? Leave play-house, temple, and the rummer? A country friend might serve in summer! The town's your choice — yet, charming fair, Observe what ills attend you there. Captains, that once admir'd your beauty, Are kept by quality on duty; Cits, for attoning alms disburse A tester — templars, something worse: My lord may take you to his bed, But then he sends you back unpaid; And all you gain from generous cully, Must go to keep some Irish bully. Pinchbeck demands the tweezer case, And Monmouth-street the gown and stays; More mischiefs yet come crowding on, Bridewell, — West Indies — and Sir John — Then oh! to lewdness bid adieu, And chastly live, confin'd to two.