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--! [Footnote 1: From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv: "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc. "Avaunt, and quit my sight."] A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED. WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731