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E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin:
For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew, The goddess with a discontented air
Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; Down to the central earth, his proper scene, There she collects the force of female lungs, Repair'd to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues
Swist on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, A vial next she fills with fainting fears, And in a vapor reach'd the dismal dome.
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and fowing tears. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifis away, The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to-day Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air,
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, And screen’d in shades from day's detested glare, Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. And all the Furies issued at the vent.
Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, But differing far in figure and in face,
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, “O wretched maid !" she spread her hands, and cried, Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd ; (While Hampton's echoes, wretched maid! replied) With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and "Was it for this you took such constant care noons,
The bodkin, comb, and essence, to prepare ? Her hand is fill’d; her bosom with lampoons. For this your locks in paper durance bound, There Affectation, with a sickiy mien,
For this with torturing irons wreath'd around ? Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, For this with fillets strain'd your tender bead, Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside, And bravely bore the double loads of lead? Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show. Honor forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine The fair-ones feel such maladies as these,
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.
A constant vapor o'er the palace flies; Already hear the horrid things they say,
How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?
Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen, On that rapacious hand for ever blaze! Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen. Sooner shall grass in Hyde-Park Circus grow, Here living tea-pots stand, one arm-held out, And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow! One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks ; Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!" Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks ; She said ; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs : And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain,
Safe past the Gnome through this fantastic band, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.) A branch of healing spleen-wor: in his hand, With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, Then thus address'd the power .—“Hail, wayward He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case, queen!
And thus broke out:-"My Lord, why, what the Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen :
devil? Parent of vapors, and of female wit,
2—ds! damn the Lock! 'fore Gad, you must be Who give th’ hysteric, or poetic fit,
civil! On various tempers act by various ways, Plague on't! 'tis past a jest--nay pr’ythee, pox! Make some take physic, others scribble plays; Give her the hair"-he spoke, and rapp'd his box. Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
" It grieves me much (replied the peer again), And send the godly in a pet to pray.
Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain; A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains, But by this Lock, this sacred Lock, I swear, And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. (Which never more shall join its parted hair; But, oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace, Which never more its honors shall renew, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew,! Like citron-waters, matrons' cheeks inflame, That while my nostrils draw the vital air, Or change complexions at a losing game;
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,
He spoke, and, speaking, in proud triumph spread Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
The long-contended honors of her head. Or caus'd suspicion where no soul was rude, But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so; Or discompos'd the head-dress of a prude, He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease,
Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease : Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears
On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head,
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; Which, with a sigh, she rais'd ; and thus she said : Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." “For ever curs'd be this detested day,
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued : Which snatch'd my best, my favorite curl away: Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,
• To arms, to arms !" the fierce virago cries, If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen! And swift as lightning to the combat flies. Yet am not I the first mistaken maid
All side in parties, and begin th' attack; By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd. Fans clap, silks rustle, and, tough whalebones Oh had I rather unadmir'd remain'd
crack ; In some lone isle, or distant northern land ; Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus’dly rise, Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, And base and treble voices strike the skies. Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! No common weapons in their hands are found; There kept my charms conceald from mortal eye, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.
So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, What mov'd my mind with youthful lords to roam ? And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; Oh had I stay'd, and said my prayers at home! 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona Hermes arms; 'Twas this, the morning omens seem'd to tell, And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; Jove's thunder roars, Heaven trembles all around, The tottering china shook without a wind, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives A Sylph too warn’d me of the threats of Fate,
way, In mystic visions, now believ'd too late!
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs ! Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height My hand shall rend what ev’n thy rapine spares: Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight: These in two sable ringlets taught to break, Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the Sprites survey Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; The growing combat, or assist the fray. The Sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,
While through the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;
And scatters death around from both her eyes, Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, A beau and willing perish'd in the throng, And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands. One died in metaphor, and one in song. Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize “O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these !" Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
“ Those eyes are made so killing"- ?-was his last. Canto V.
Thus on Mæander's flowery margin lies
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. She said: the pitying audience melt in tears;
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the baron's ears. Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, For who can move when fair Belinda fails ? But, at her smile, the beau reviv'd again. Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side ; Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began: At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
“Say, why are beauties prais'd and honor'd most, See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away : And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. Who would not scorn what housewife's cares pro- " Now meet thy fate," incens'd Belinda cried, duce,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. Or who would learn one earthly thing of use ? (The same, his ancient personage to deck, To patch, nay ogle, may become a saint; Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
In three seal rings; which after, melted down, But since, alas, frail beauty must decay ;
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to grey; Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; And she who scorns a man must die a maid ; Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, What then remains, but well our power to use, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) And keep good-humor still, whate'er we lose? Boast not my fall (he cried), insulting foe! And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail, Thou by some other shalt be laid as low. When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind :
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than so, ah! let me still survive,
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, And burn in Cupid's flames—but burn alive.” Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws :
• Restore the Lock," she cries; and all around, He bids your breasts with ancient ardor rise,
Virtue consess'd in human shape he draws,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Who sees him act, but envies every deed ?
As her dead father's reverend image past,
But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise, Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she sub
On French translation, and Italian song.
This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, Be justly warm'd with your own native rage ;
Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
ELOISA TO ABELARD.
tury; they were two of the most distinguished Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.
persons of their age in learning and beauty, but For, after all the murders of your eye,
for nothing more famous than for their unfortu. When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; nate passion. After a long course of calamities, When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, they retired each to a several convent, and conAnd all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
secrated the remainder of their days to religion. This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
It was many years after this separation, that a And midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the history of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloisa. This awakening all her tenderness,
occasioned those celebrated letters (out of which PROLOGUE
the following is partly extracted) which give sc
lively a picture of the struggles of grace and na
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seald:
Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies :