WO college fophs of Cambridge growth,
Both fpecial wits, and lovers both,
Conferring as they us'd to meet
On love, and books, in rapture sweet
(Muse, find me names to fit my metre,
Caffinus this, and t'other Peter);
Friend Peter to Caffinus goes,
To chat a while, and warm his nose :
But fuch a fight was never seen,
The lad lay fwallow'd up in fpleen.
He feem'd as just crept out of bed;
One greasy stocking round his head,
The other he fat down to darn
With threads of different-colour'd yarn ;
His breeches torn expofing wide
A ragged shirt and tawny hide.
Scorch'd were his fhins, his legs were bare,
But well embrown'd with dirt and hair.
rug was o'er his fhoulders thrown
(A rug; for night-gown he had none).
His jordan ftood in manner fitting
Between his legs to fpew or fpit in;
His ancient pipe, in fable dy'd,
And half unfmok'd, lay by his fide.
Him thus accoutred Peter found,
With in smoke and weeping drown'd;
The leavings of his last night's pot
On embers plac'd, to drink it hot.
Why, Caffy, thou wilt doze thy pate:
What makes thee lie a-bed fo late?
The finch, the linnet, and the thrush,
Their mattins chant in every bush:
And I have heard thee oft' falute
Aurora with thy early flute.
Heaven fend thou haft not got the hyps!
How! not word come from thy lips?
Then gave him fome familiar thumps;
A college-joke, to cure the dumps.
The swain at laft, with grief opprest,
Cry'd, Calia! thrice, and figh'd the rest.
Dear Caffy, though to ask I dread,
Yet afk I muft. Is Cælia dead?
How happy I, were that the worst!
But I was fated to be curst.
Come, tell us, has the play'd the whore?
Oh, Peter, would it were no more!
Why, plague confound her fandy locks!
Say, has the fmall or greater pox
Sunk down her nofe, or feam'd her face ?
Be eafy, 'tis a common cafe.
Oh, Peter! beauty 's but a varnish,
Which time and accidents will tarnish:
But Cælia has contriv'd to blaft
Those beauties that might ever last.
Nor can imagination guefs,
Nor eloquence divine exprefs,
How that ungrateful charming maid
My pureft paffion has betray'd.
Conceive the most invenom'd dart
To pierce an injur'd lover's heart.
Why, hang her; though the feem fo coy,
I know the loves the barber's boy.
Friend Peter, this I could excufe;
For everv nymph has leave to chufe;
Nor have I reafon to complain,
She loves a more deferving fwain.
But, oh how ill haft thou divin'd
A crime, that fhocks all huma.-kind;
A deed unknown to female race,
At which the fun fhould hide his face:
Advice in vain you would apply-
Then leave me to defpair and die.
Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn
Thefe elegies and fonners burn;
And on the marble grave thefe rhymes,
A monument to after-times:
"Here Caffy lies, by Calia flain,
"And dying never told his pain."
Vai empty world, farewell. But hark,
The loud Cerberian triple bark.
And there-behold Alecto ftand, '
A whip of fcorpions in her hand.
Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry
Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry.
I come, I come, Medufa! fee,
Her ferpents hifs direct at me.
Begone; unhand me, hellish fry:
Avaunt-ye cannot fay 'tis I."
Dear Caffy, thou must purge and bleed ;
I fear thou wilt be mad indeed.
But now, by friendship's facred laws,
I here conjure thee, tell the cause;
And Cælia's horrid fact relate:
Thy friend would gladly fhare thy fate.
To force it out, my heart muft rend:
Yet when conjur'd by such a friend-
Think, Peter, how my foul is rackt!
These eyes, thefe eyes, beheld the fact.
Now bend thine ear, fince out it must;
But, when thou feeft me laid in duft,
The fecret thou fhalt ne'er impart,
Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart;
(How would her virgin foul bemoan
A crime to all her fex unknown!)
Nor whisper to the tattling reeds
The blackest of all female deeds;
Nor blab it on the lonely rocks,
Where Echo fits, and liftening mocks ;
Nor let the Zephyrs' treacherous gale
Through Cambridge waft the direful tale ;
No to the chattering feather'd race
Discover Cælia's foul difgrace.
But, if you fail, my fpectre dread,
Attending nightly round your bed:
And yet I dare confide in you:
So take my fecret, and adieu.
Nor wonder how I loft my wits:
Oh! Cælia, Cælia, Cælia fh-!
WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX.
CORINNA, pride of Drury-lane,
For whom no fhepherd fighs in vain;
Never did Covent-garden boast
So bright a batter'd strolling toast!
No drunken rake to pick her up;
No cellar, where on tick to fup;
Returning at the midnight hour,
Four stories climbing to her bower;
Then, feated on a three-legg'd chair,
Takes off her artificial hair.
Now picking out a crystal eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her eye-brows from a moufe's hide
Stuck on with art on either fide,
Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em,
Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em.
Now dextrously her plumpers draws,
That ferve to fill her hollow jaws.
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