A Sylph, too, warn'd me of the threats of Fate,
In 'myftic vifions, now believ'd too late!

See the poor remnants of these flighted hairs!
My hands fhall rend what ev'n thy rapine fpares :
These in two fable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the fnowy neck;
The fifter-lock now fits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow's fate forefees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal fheers demands,
And tempts, once more, thy facrilegious hands.
Oh hadit thou, cruel! been content to feize
Hairs lefs in fight, or any hairs but these !

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears.
But Fate and Jove had ftopp'd the Baron's ears.
In vain Thaleftris with reproach assails!
For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
Not half fo fix'd the Trojan could remain,
While Anna begg'd, and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clariffa graceful wav'd her fan;
Silence enfu'd, and thus the Nymph began.

Say, why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd most, The wife man's paffion, and the vain man's toast? Why deck'd with all that land and fea afford, Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd;

Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd

Beaux,

Why bows the fide-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good fense preserve what beauty gains: That men may fay, when we the front-box grace, Behold the first in virtue, as in face!

Oh! if to dance all night, and drefs all day,
Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint;
Nor could it, fure, be fuch a fin to paint.

But fince, alas! frail beauty must decay,
Curl'd or uncurl'd, fince Locks will turn to gray;
Since painted, or not painted, all fhall fade,
And the who fcorns a man muft die a maid;
What, then, remains, but well our pow'r to use,
And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lofe?
And trust me, Dear, good-humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and fcolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
Charms strike the fight, but merit wins the foul.
So spoke the Dame, but no applause enfu'd;
Belinda frown'd; Thaleftris call'd her Prude.
To arms, to arms! the fierce Virago cries,
And, fwift as lightning, to the combat flies.
All fide in parties, and begin th' attack;
Fans clap, filks ruftle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes and Heroines fhouts confus'dly rife,
And base and treble voices ftrike the skies.
No common weapon in their hands are found;
Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.
So, when bold Homer makes the Gods engage,
And heav'nly breafts with human paffions rage;
'Gainft Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:

Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around, Blue Neptune ftorms, the bellowing deeps refound: Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!

Triumphant Umbriel, on a fconce's height, Clapp'd his glad wings, and fate to view the fight: Propp'd on their bodkin fpears, the fprites furvey The growing combat, or affift the fray.

While thro' the prefs enrag'd Thaleftris flies,
And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng,
One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong.
"O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,"
Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk befide his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
"Those eyes are made fo killing”—was his last.
Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies.

Th' expiring Swan, and, as he fings, he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clariffa down,
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown ;
She fmil'd to fee the doughty hero flain,
But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again.
Now Jove fufpends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the men's wits against the Lady's hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from fide to fide;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs fubfide.
See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
With more than ufual lightning in her eyes:
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,
Who fought no more than on his foe to die.

VOL. I.

C

But

But this bold Lord, with manly ftrength endu'd,
She with one finger and a thumb fubdu'd :
Juft where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw ;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom juft,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose,
Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her fide.
(The fame, his ancient perfonage to deck,
Her great-great-grandfire wore about his neck,
In three feal-rings; which, after melted down,
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew;
The bells the gingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long fhe wore, and now Belinda wears.}
Boaft not my fall (he cry'd) infulting foe!
Thou by fome other shalt be laid as low.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than fo, ah let me ftill furvive
And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive.
Reftore the Lock! fhe cries; and all around
Reftore the Lock! the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in fo loud a strain

Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But fee how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is loft!

The

The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In ev'ry place is fought, but fought in vain :
With fuch a prize no mortal must be bleft;
So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,
Since all things loft on earth are treafur'd there.
There hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vafes,
And Beaux in fruff-boxes and tweezer-cafes.
There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,"
And lovers hearts with ends of ribband bound,
The courtier's promifes, and fick man's pray'rs,
The fmiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
Cages for knats, and chains to yoak a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of cafuistry.

But truft the Mufe-fhe faw it upward rife,
Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,
To Proculus alone confess'd in view)

A fudden Star, it fhot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant tail of hair.

Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,
The heav'ns befpangling with dishevel❜d light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And, pleas'd, pursue its progrefs thro' the skies.
This the Beau-monde shall from the Mall survey,
And hail with mufic its propitious ray.

This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take,
And fend up vows from Rosamonda's lake.

This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks thro' Galilæo's eyes ;