Cassinus and Peter

A TRAGICAL ELEGY

1731

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