_But if I write_ much longer now, The deuce a soul _will stay to read_, My pen is blunt, the ink is low, 'Tis almost time to _stop, indeed_. 25. Therefore farewell, old GRANTA's spires, No more like _Cleofas_ I fly, No more thy theme my muse inspires, The reader's tired, and so am I. _October_ 28, 1806. [Footnote 8: The Diable Boiteux of LE SAGE, where Asmodeus the Demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for his inspection.] [Footnote 9: Sele's publication on Greek metres is not remarkable for its accuracy.] [Footnote 10: Every Cambridge man will assent to this,--the Latin of the Schools is almost unintelligible.] [Footnote 11: The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the Hypothenuse, is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right angled triangle.] [Footnote 12: On a Saint Day, the Students wear Surplices in Chapel.] * * * * * TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. Your pardon my friend, If my rhymes did offend, Your pardon a thousand times o'er, From friendship I strove, Your pangs to remove, But I swear I will do so no more. 2. Since your _beautiful_ maid Your flame has repaid, No more I your folly regret; She's now most divine, And I bow at the shrine, Of this quickly reformed coquette. 3. But still I must own, I should never have known, From _your verses_ what else she deserv'd, Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate, As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd. 4. But since the chaste kiss, Of this magical Miss, Such wonderful transports produce, Since the "_world you forget," "When your lips once have met_," My Counsel will get but abuse. 5. You say "when I rove" "I know nothing of love," 'Tis true I am given to range, If I rightly remember, I've kiss'd a good number, But there's pleasure at least in a change. 6. I ne'er will advance, By the rules of romance, To humour a whimsical fair, Though a smile may delight, Yet a _frown_ wont _affright_, Or drive me to dreadful despair. 7. Whilst my blood is thus warm, I ne'er shall reform, To mix in the Platonist's school; Of this I am sure, Was my passion so pure, _My mistress_ must think me _a fool_. 8. Though the kisses are sweet, Which voluptuously meet, Of kissing I ne'er was so fond, As to make me forget, Though our lips oft have met, That still there was _something beyond_. 9. And if I should shun, Every _woman_ for _one_, Whose _image_ must fill my whole breast; Whom I must _prefer_, And _sigh_ but for _her_, What an _insult_ 'twould be to the _rest_! 10. Now, Strephon, good bye, I cannot deny, _Your passion_ appears most absurd, Such _love_ as you plead, Is _pure_ love indeed, For it _only_ consists in the _word_. * * * * *