Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, Both special wits and lovers both, Conferring, as they used to meet, On love, and books, in rapture sweet;
( Muse, find me names to fit my metre, Cassinus this, and t'other Peter. ) Friend Peter to Cassinus goes, To chat a while, and warm his nose:
But such a sight 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 different colour'd yarn; His breeches torn, exposing wide A ragged shirt and tawny hide.
Scorch'd were his shins, 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 spew or spit in; His ancient pipe, in sable dyed, And half unsmoked, lay by his side.
Him thus accoutred Peter found, With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd; The leavings of his last night's pot On embers placed, to drink it hot.
Why, Cassy, thou wilt dose thy pate: What makes thee lie a-bed so late? The finch, the linnet, and the thrush, Their matins chant in every bush;
And I have heard thee oft salute Aurora with thy early flute. Heaven 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, Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest.
Dear Cassy, though to ask I dread, Yet ask I must — is Celia dead? How happy I, were that the worst! But I was fated to be curst!
Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore? O Peter, would it were no more! Why, plague confound her sandy locks! Say, has the small or greater pox
Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face? Be easy,‘ tis a common case. O Peter! beauty's but a varnish, Which time and accidents will tarnish:
But Celia has contrived 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 envenom'd dart To pierce an injured lover's heart.
Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy, I know she loves the barber's boy. Friend Peter, this I could excuse, For every nymph has leave to choose;
Nor have I reason to complain, She loves a more deserving swain. But, oh! how ill hast thou divined A crime, that shocks all human kind;
A deed unknown to female race, At which the sun 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 Cassy lies, by Celia slain, And dying, never told his pain.” Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, The loud Cerberian triple bark;
And there — behold Alecto stand, A whip of scorpions in her hand: Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry:
I come! I come! Medusa see, Her serpents hiss direct at me. Begone; unhand me, hellish fry: “Avaunt — ye cannot say‘ twas I. "
Dear Cassy, 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 conjured by such a friend —
Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd! These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact. Now bend thine ear, since out it must; But, when thou seest 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 A 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 sits, and listening mocks;
Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; Nor to the chattering feather'd race Discover Celia's foul disgrace.
But, if you fail, my spectre dread, Attending nightly round your bed — And yet I dare confide in you; So take my secret, and adieu:
Nor wonder how I lost my wits: Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh —!
Cookies on Poetry Cove