Of these the chief the care of nations own,

And guard with arms divine the British throne.
Our humbler province is to tend the fair,

Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care;

To save the powder from too rude a gale,

Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale;

To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs;

To steal from rainbows ere they drop in show'rs
A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;

Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,

To change a flounce, or add a furbelow.

'This day black omens threat the brightest fair

That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care;

Some dire disaster, or by force or slight;

But what, or where, the Fates have wrapp'd in night.

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw;

Or stain her honour, or her new brocade;
Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade;

Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;

Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall.

Haste then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:

The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care;

The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign;

And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock;
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.

To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note,

We trust th' important charge, the petticoat:

Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail,

Though stiff with hoops and arm'd with ribs of whale;

Form a strong line about the silver bound,

And guard the wide circumference around.

Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,

His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins,

Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins;

Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie,

Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye :

Gums and pomatums shall his flight retain,

While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain;

Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r

Shrink his thin essence like a rivel'd flow'r :

Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel

The giddy motion of the whirling mill,

In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow,
And tremble at the sea that froths below!'

He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;

Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;

Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;

Some hang upon the pendants of her ear;

With beating hearts the dire event they wait,
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate.

THE

RAPE OF THE LOCK.

CANTO III.