Imatges de pàgina
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And, I have heard thee oft falute

Aurora with thy early Flute.

Heaven send thou haft not got the Hypps.
How? Not a Word come from thy Lips?

THEN, gave him fome familiar Thumps; A College Joke, to cure the Dumps.

THE Swain at last, with Grief opprefs't; Cry'd Celia thrice, and figh'd the rest.

DIAR Caffy, though to ask I dread, Yet, ask I muft. Is Celia dead?

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

COME, tell us, has she play'd the Whore?

OH Peter, wou'd 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 easy, 'tis a common Cafe.

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O PETER! Beauty's but a Varnish,
Which Time and Accidents will tarnish:
But, Calia has contriv'd to blaft
Those Beauties that might ever laft.
Nor can Imagination guess,
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'd fo

I know she loves the Barber's Boy.

FRIEND Peter, this I could excufe;
For, ev'ry Nymph has Leave to chufe;
Nor, have I Reafon to complain :
She loves a more deferving Swain.
But, oh! how ill haft thou divin'd
A Crime that shocks all human Kind;
A Deed unknown to Female Race,
At which the Sun fhould hide his Face.
Advice in vain you would apply.

Then, leave me to defpair and dye.

Coy,

Yet,

Yet, kind Arcadians, on my Urn

Thefe Elegies and Sonnets burn,

And on the Marble grave these Rhimes,
A Monument to after-Times:

"Here Caffy les, by Celia flain,

66

And dying, never told his Pain,

VAIN empty World farewell. But, hark,

The loud Cerberian triple Bark.
And there-behold Alecto ftand,
A Whip of Scorpions in her Hand.
Lo, Charon from his leaky Wherry,
Beck'ning to waft me o'er the Ferry.
Medufa, fee,

I come, I come,

Her Serpents hifs direct at me.

Begone; unhand me, hellish Fry:

† Avaunt

-ye cannot fay 'twas 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 Caufe;

+ See Macbeth,

And

And Celia's horrid Fat relate:
Thy Friend would gladly fhare thy Fate.

To force it out, my Heart muft rend:
Yet, when conjur'd by fuch a Friend
Think Peter, how my Soul is rack't.
These Eyes, these Eyes beheld the Fa&t.
Now, bend thine Ear; fince out it muft:
But, when thou feeft me laid in Duft,
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 blackeft of all Female Deeds.
Nor blab it on the lonely Rocks,
Where Echo fits, and lift'ning, mocks.
Nor let the Zephyr's treach'rous Gale,
Through Cambridge waft the direful Tale.
Nor to the chatt'ring feather'd Race,
Pifcoyer Celia's foul Difgrace.
But, if you fail; my Spectre dread
Attending nightly round your Bed:

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A few of the firft Lines were wanting in the Copy fent us by a Friend of the Author's frem London.

B

Y an

purfu'd,

A * crazy Prelate, and a † Royal Prude.
By dull Divines, who look with envious Eyes,
On ev'ry Genius that attempts to rise;

And paufing o'er a Pipe, with doubtful Nod,
Give Hints, that Poets ne'er believe in God.

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