Or, if I now were hurrying to the jail,
Are the nine Muses held sufficient bail?
Would they to any Composition come;
If we should mortgage our Elysium,
Tempe, Parnassus, and the golden streams
Of Tagus and Pactolus? those rich dreams
Of active fancy! Can our ORPHEUS move
Those rocks and stones, with his best strains of love?
Should I, like HOMER, sing in lofty tones
To them, ACHILLES and his Myrmidons!
HECTOR and AJAX are but Sergeants' names!
They relish bay-salt 'bove the Epigrams
Of the most seasoned brain! nor will they be
Content with Ode; or paid with Elegy!
Muse, burn thy bays; and thy fond quill resign! One cross of theirs is worth whole books of mine! Of all the treasure which the Poets hold;
There's none at all they weigh, except our gold! And mine 's returned to the Indies; and hath swore Never to visit this cold climate more!
Then crack your strings, good Purse! for you need none !
Gape on! (as they do, to be paid!) gape on!
ON THE FALL OF THE‘MITRE' TAVERN,
LAMENT! lament! you Scholars all!
Each wear his blackest gown!
The Mitre, that upheld your wits,
Is now itself fall'n down!
The dismal fire on London Bridge
Can move no heart of mine!
For that but o'er the water stood;
But this stood o'er the wine!
It needs must melt each Christian's heart,
That this sad news but hears;
To think how the good hogsheads wept
Good Sack, and Claret, tears!
The zealous Students of that place
Change of Religion fear!
That this mischance may soon bring in
The Heresy of Beer!
Unhappy Mitre! I would know
The cause of thy sad hap?
Was it for making legs too low
TO PEMBROKE'S Cardinal's Cap?
Then, know thyself; and cringe no more!
Since Popery went down,
That Cap should vail to thee! for now
The Mitre 's next the Crown!
Or was 't because our company
Did not frequent your cell,
As we were wont, to drown our cares;
Thou foxed thyself, and fell?
No, sure, the Devil was adry;
And caused this fatal blow!
'Twas he that made this cellar sink,
That he might drink below!
And some do say, The Devil did it,
'Cause he would drink up all!
I rather think, The Pope was drunk;
And let his Mitre fall!
Poor Commoners! to your disgrace,
Your want of skill acknowledge!
To let a Tavern fall, that stood
O' th' walls of your own College!
Rose now withers! Falcon moults!
White SAM enjoys his wishes!
The Dolphin now must cast his crown!
Wine was not made for fishes!
That sign a Tavern best becomes,
To shew who loves it best!
The Mitre's then the only sign!
For 'tis the Scholar's crest!
Thou, SAM, drink Sack; and cheer thyself!
Be not dismayed at all!
For we will drink it up again;
Though we do catch a fall!
We'll be thy workmen, day and night,
In spite of bugbear Proctors!
We drank, like Freshmen all before;
But now we'll drink like Doctors!
My Love and I, for kisses played.
But when I won, She would be paid!
This made me ask her, What She meant?
Nay, since I see,' quoth She, 'your wrangling vein; Take your own kisses! and I'll take mine again!'
TO A LADY, PUTTING OFF HER VEIL.
KEEP on your veil, and hide your eye;
For with beholding you, I die!
Your fatal beauty, GORGON-like,
Dead with astonishment will strike!
Your piercing eyes, if them I see,
Are worse than basilisks to me!
Hide from my sight those hills of snow!
Their melting valley do not show!
Those azure paths lead to despair!
O, vex me not! Forbear! Forbear!
For, while I thus in torments dwell,
The sight of Heaven is worse than Hell!
Your dainty voice and warbling breath
Sounds like a sentence passed for death!
Your dangling tresses are become
Like instruments of Final Doom!
O, if an angel torture so;
When life is done, where shall I go?
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