(Who now so impiously blasphemes Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, Her washes, slops, and every clout, With which he makes so foul a rout;) He soon would learn to think like me, And bless his ravish'd sight to see Such order from confusion sprung, Such gaudy tulips raised from dung. [Footnote 1: Var. "The bitch bequeath'd her when she died."--1732.] [Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."--1732.] [Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1: "Before their eyes in sudden view appear The secrets of the hoary deep."--_W. E. B._] THE POWER OF TIME. 1730 If neither brass nor marble can withstand The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry; When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine) Is out at elbows, why should I repine? 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