Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/107

 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 divin'd A crime, that shocks all humankind; 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 aftertimes. — "Here Cassy lies, by Cælia 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 'tis I ." 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 Cælia's horrid fact relate: Thy friend would gladly share thy fate.