Let prudence with good-nature ftrive Shall never but with life expire. A Written in the Year 1731, POLLO, God of light and wit, writ; Refin'd all metals with his looks, No heir upon his first appearance, With twenty thousand pounds a yearrents, E'er E'er drove, before he fold his land, Yet with his beauty, wealth and parts, Was fo unfortunate in love. Three weighty causes were affign'd, That mov'd the nymphs to be unkind. Nine Muses always waiting round him, He left them virgins as he found 'em, His finging was another fault; For he could reach to B in alt: And by the fentiments of Pliny, Such fingers are like Nicolini*. At last the point was fully clear'd; In fhort, Apollo had no beard, An Italian. CASSINUS CASSINUS AND PETER. A Tragical ELEGY. Written in the Year 1731. TWO college fophs of Cambridge growth, Both special wits, and lovers both, To chat a while and warm his nose: A A His His jordan ftood in manner fitting Him thus accoutred Peter found, Why, Cafly, 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 a word come from thy lips? Then gave him fome familiar thumps; A college joke to cure the dumps. The fwain at last with grief oppreft Cry'd, Calia! thrice, and figh'd the reft. Dear Caffy, though to ask I dread, Yet afk I muft. Is Calia dead? How How happy I, were that the worst? But I was fated to be curft. Come, tellus, has fhe 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 nofe, or feam'd her face? Be cafy, 'tis a common cafe. Oh, Peter! beauty's but a varnish, Which time and accidents will tarnish: But Celia has contriv'd to blaft Those beauties, that might ever last. Nor can imagination guess, Nor eloquence divine express, How that ungrateful charming maid My pureft paffion has betray'd. Conceive the moft invenom'd dart To pierce an injur'd lover's heart. Why hang her; though fhe feem focoy, I know she loves the barber's boy. Friend Peter, this I could excuse; For every nymph has leave to chuse; Nor |