Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out,
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: 50
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks;
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks;
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works;
And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.
Safe pass'd the gnome through this fantastic
band,
A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand: Then thus address'd the power:- Hail, wayward queen!
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:
Parent of vapors and of female wit,
Who give the 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 thy power disdains, 65
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
But, O! 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 hairy horns I planted heads,
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude,
Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude,
Homer's tripod walks. See Hom. Iliad, xviii., of Vulcan's walking tripods.-P.
2 And there a goose-pie talks. Alluding to a fact; a lady of distinction imagined herself in this condition.-P.
Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease,
Which not the tears of brightest eyes
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ;
That single act gives half the world the spleen.'
The goddess with a discontented air
Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer.
A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds,
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;
There she collects the force of female lungs,
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues.
A vial next she fills with fainting fears,
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to
day.
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found,
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound:
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent,
And all the furies issued at the vent.
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.
O wretched maid!' she spread her hands, and
cried, While Hampton's echoes, Wretched maid!' re
Was it for this you took such constant care The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? For this locks in your durance bound? For this with torturing irons wreathed around? For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, 101 And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
102 The double loads of lead? The arts of hair-dressing in that
Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare?
Honor forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.
Methinks already I your tears survey;
Already hear the horrid things they say;
Already see you a degraded toast,
And all your honor in a whisper lost!
How shall I then your hapless fame defend?
"Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!
And shall this prize, the inestimable prize,
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?
Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park circus grow,
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall,
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!' 120
She said; then raging to sir Plume repairs,
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs:
(Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain,
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case,
age were arts of torture: the female head was in a perpetual state of ingenious misery.
121 Sir Plume repairs. Sir George Brown. He was the only one of the party who took the thing seriously: he was angry that the poet should make him talk nothing but nonsense.-P.
123 Sir Plume. We learn from Warton, that an engraving of sir Plume, with seven other figures by Hogarth, was executed on the lid of a gold snuff-box, and presented to one of the parties concerned. The original impression of a print of it was sold at Mr. Gulston's sale for £33.
And thus broke out:- My lord, why, what the
Z-ds! d- the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil.
Plague on't! 'tis past a jest-nay, prythee, pox! Give her the hair!'-he spoke, and rapp'd his box.
'It grieves me much,' replied the peer again, 131 'Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain : But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair: Which never more its honors shall renew, Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew) That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.' He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honors of her head.
But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears: On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, 145 Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said:For ever cursed be this detested day,
Which snatch'd my best, my favorite curl away! Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,
If Hampton-court these eyes had never seen! 150 Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,
By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd.
O, had I rather unadmired, remain'd
In some lone isle, or distant northern land;
133 But by this lock. In allusion to Achilles' oath in Homer, Il. i.-P.
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea!
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.
What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam?
O, had I stay'd and said my prayers at home! 160
"Twas this the morning omens seem'd to tell:
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
The tottering China shook without a wind;
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
A sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate, 165
In mystic visions, now believed too late!
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares:
These in two sable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170
The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands,
And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands.
O, hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!'
|