Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/108

 To force it out, my heart must rend; Yet when conjur'd 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 Cælia'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. No wonder how I lost my wits: Oh! Cælia, Cælia, Cælia sh—! A BEAU-