While You, dear Tom, in London City,
Associate with the fair and witty,
And, gayly rambling o'er the Town,
Take the brisk Juice in Bumpers down;
Or, charm'd with the persuasive Stage,
Laugh at the Follies of the Age;
To College wretched I return,
And Day and Night with Spleen I burn:
From jovial Friends, from Pipe and Bottle,
To Pray'rs and musty Aristotle,
From decent Meals, and wholsome Wines,
To foggy Coll. and Mutton Loins,
From well--bred Mirth, to stupid Puns,
Of Pedants and of College Dons,
My happy course of Life I change;
No more I dress, no more I range,
But pensive mope within all Day,
And sleep and rhime the Hours away;
A gentle Song to Laura send,
Or scribble something to my Friend;
This Morning, as I stalk'd about,
These Lines to thee I hammer'd out.

Thou, TOM, with Rapture and Delight,
Enjo'st the fair one in thy Sight,
The fair one too perhaps on thee,
Smiles, as she tattles o'er her Tea:
Whilst far from these distracted Eyes,
My absent Laura's Image flies,
To her my constant Thoughts I bend,
In Sighs to her my Wishes send;
In vain from Sighs I hope Relief,
And Thinking but augments my Grief;
Her distant Lips I seem to kiss,
And cheat my self with fancy'd Bliss.

Excuse me, that I say no more,
My Veins with raging Fires boil o'er,
Wild roll my Eyes, my Heart grows sad,
Pox take me if I don't run mad.