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Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades,
Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry side are seen, Of bodies chang'd to various forms by spleen. Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout; A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks; Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud'for corks.
Safe past the gnome through this fantastic band, A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand.
Then thus address'd the pow'r—' Hail, wayward Queen!
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:
Parent of vapours and of female wit,
Who give th' hysteric or poetic fit,
On various tempers act by various ways,
Make some take physic, others scribble plays;
Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
And send the godly in a pet to pray:
A nymph there is that all your pow'r disdains,
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
But oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace,
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame,
Or change complexions at a losing game;
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude,
The goddess, with a discontented air,