On a Lady Who P-ssed at the Tragedy of Cato

Occasion'd by an

Epigram on a Lady who wept at it

While maudlin Whigs deplor'd their Cato 's Fate
Still with dry Eyes the Tory Celia sate,
But while her Pride forbids her Tears to flow,
The gushing Waters find a Vent below:
Tho' secret, yet with copious Grief she mourns,
Like twenty River-Gods with all their Urns.
Let others screw their Hypocritick Face,
She shews her Grief in a sincerer Place;
There Nature reigns, and Passion void of Art,
For that Road leads directly to the Heart.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.