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Written in the year 1731.
Two college-Sophs of Cambridge growth,
Both special 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,
Caflinus this, and t'other Peter).
Friend Peter to Caffinus goes,
To chat a while, and warm his nose.
But such a fight was never seen,
The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen.
He seem'd as just crept out of bed;.
One greasy stocking round his head,
The other he sat down to darn
With threads of diff'rent colour'd yarn ;
His breeches torn, exposing wide
A ragged shirt and tawny hide.
Scorch'd were his thins, his legs were bare,
But well embrown'd with dirt and hair.
A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown;
A rug; for nightgown he had none.
His jordan stood in manner fitting
Between his legs to spue or fpir in,
His ancient pipe in fable dy'd,
And half unsmok'd lay by his fide:-
Him thus accoutred Peter found,
With eyes in smoke and weeping drown’d:
The leavings of his last night's pot
On embers place'd to drink it hot.
Why, Caffy, thou wilt dofe thy pate :
What makes thee lie abed fo late ?
The finch, the linnet, and the thrush,
Their mattins chant in ev'ry bush :
And I have heard thee oft falute
Aurora with thy early flute.
Heav'n send thou hast not got the hyps !
How! not a word come from thy lips ?
Then gave him some familiar thumps ; A college-joke to cure the dumps.
The swain at last, with grief opprest, Cry'd “ Celia !” thrice, and figh'd the rest.
Dear Caffy, though to ask I dread, Yet aik I must: Is Celia dead ?
How happy I, were that the worst ? But I was fated to be curft.
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 small or greater pox
Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face?
Be easy, 'is a common case.
O Peter! beauty's but a varnish,
Which time and accidents will tarnish :
But Celia has contriv'd to blast
Those beauties that might ever last.
Nor can imagination guess,
Nor eloquence divine express,
How that ungrateful charming maid
My purest passion has betray'd.
Conceive the most invenom'd dart
To pierce an injur'd lover's heart.
Why, hang her; though she seem'd fo coy, I know she loves the barber's boy.
Friend Peter, this I could excuse ;
For ev'ry nymph has leave to chufe;
Nor have I reason to complain,
She loves a more deserving fwain.
But oh! how ill hast thou divin'd
A crime, that shocks all human kind;
A deed unknown to female race,
At which the fun should hide his face;
Advice in vain you would apply-
Then leave me to despair and die.
Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn
These elegies and sonnets burn;
And on the marble grave these rhymes,
A monument to after times :
“ Here Cafly lies, by Celia flain,
“ And dying never told his pain.”
Vain empty world, farewell. But hark,
The loud Cerberian triple bark.
And therebehold Alecto stand,
A whip of scorpions in her hand.
Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry
Beck’ning to waft me o'er the ferry.
I come, I come, Medusa! fee,
Her ferpents hiss direct at me.
Begone; unhand me, hellish fry :
ye cannot say 'tis I.
Dear Caffy, thou must purge and bleed; I fear thou wilt be mad indeed.
But now, by friendship’s sacred laws
I here conjure thee, tell the cause ;
And Celia's horrid fact relate :
Thy friend would gladly share thy fate.
To force it out my heart must rend :
Yet when conjur'd by such a friend
Think, Peter, how my soul is rackt !
These eyes, these eyes beheld the fact.
Now bend thine ear since out it must;
But when thou seeft me laid in dust,
The secret thou shalt ne'er impart,
Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart ;
(How would her virgin-soul bemoan
À crime to all her sex unknown!)
Nor whisper to the tattling reeds
The blackest of all female deeds;
Nor blab it on the lonely rocks,
Where Echo fits, and lift'ning mocks ;
Nor let the zephyrs' treach'rovs gale
Thro' Cambridge waft the direful tale;
Nor to the chatt'ring feather'd race
Discover Celia's foul disgrace.
But if you fail, my fpectre dread
Attending nightly round your bed :
And yet I dare confide in you ;
So take my secret, and adieu.
Nor wonder how I lost
wits Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh
* See the lady's dressing room, above, p. 547. v. 118.
To a friend who had been much abused in
many inveterate libels t.
THE greatest monarch may be ftabbid by night,
And fortune help the murd'rer in his flight The vilest ruffian may commit a rape, Yet safe from injur'd innocence escape: And calumny, by working under ground, 5 Can, unreveng'd, the greatcft merit wound.
What's to be done ? shall wit and learning chuse To live obscure, and have no fame to lose? By censure frighted out of Honour's road, Nor dare to use the gifts by heav'n bestow'd; Or fearless enter in through Virtue's gate, And buy distinction at the dearest rate?
Logicians have but ill defin’d,
As rational, the human kind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man;
But let them prove it if they can.
Wife Aristotle and Smiglefius,
By ratiocinations fpecious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione præditum ;
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ;
+ This and the following poem, both ur questiorably genuine, were never inserted in any former edition of the Dean's works.