Cassinus And Peter; A Tragical Elegy

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."[1]         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 - !