Imatges de pÓgina

Let prudence with good-nature strive
To keep esteem and love alive.
Then come old age whene'er it will,
Your friendship shall continue ftill:
And thus a mutual gentle fire
Shall never but with life expire.

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А POL L 0:

OB A PRO B L E M folved.

Written in the Year 1731,

APOLLO, God of light and

wit, Could verse inspire, but feldom


Refin'd all metals with his looks,
As well as chemists by their books:
As handsome as my lady's page ;
Sweet five and twenty was his age.
His wig was made of sunny rays,
He crown'd his youthful head with bays:
Not all the court of heaven could shew
So nice and so complete a beau.

his first appearance, With twenty thousand pounds a yearrents,

No heir upon


E'er drove, before he sold his land,
So fine a coach along the Strand;
The spokes, we are by Ovid told,
Were filver, and the axle gold
(I own, 'twas but a coach and four,
For Jupiter allows no more),

Yet with his beauty, wealth and parts,
Enough to win ten thousand hearts,
No vulgar deity above
Was so unfortunate in lave.

Three weighty causes were assign'd, That mov’d the nymphs to be unkind. Nine Muses always waiting round him, He left them virgins as he found 'em, His singing was another fault; For he could reach to B in alt : And by the sentiments of Pliny, Such fingers are like Nicolini*. At last the point was fully clear’d; In short, Apollo had no beard,

4 An Italian,



A Tragical E LEG Y.

Written in the Year 1731.

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TWO college sophs of Cambridge

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,
Casinus 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 was o'er his shoulders thrown;
A rug; for night-gown he had none.




His jordan stood in manner fitting
Between his legs to spew and spit in,
His ancient pipe in sable dy’d,
And half unsmok'd lay by his side.

Him thus accoutred Peter found,
With eyes in smokeand weeping drown'd:
The leavings of his last night's pot
On embers plac'd to drink it hot.

Why, Cally, thou wilt doze thy pate:
What makes thee lie a-bed so 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 Aute.
Heaven send thou haft 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 fwain at last with grief opprest Cry'd, Cælia! thrice, and ligh'd the


Dear Caly, though to ask I dread, Yet ask I must. Is Cælig dead?


How happy I, were that the worst ? But I was fated to be curft.

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Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore?
Oh, Peter, would it were no more !

Why, plague confound her sandylocks:
Say, has the small or greater pox
Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face?
Be easy, 'tis a common case.

Oh, Peter ! beauty's but a varnish,
Which time and accidents will tarnish:
But Cælia has contriv'd to blast
Those beauties, that might ever laft.
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 focoy,
I know she loves the barber's boy.

Friend Peter, this I could excuse ; For every nymph has leave to chuse;


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