'Twas this, the morning omens feem'd to tell,
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell
The tottering China shook without a wind,
Nay Poll fat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of Fate,
In myftic visions, now believ'd too late!
See the poor remnants of these flighted hairs!
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine fpares: 'These in two fable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;
The fifter-lock now fits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal fheers demands,
And tempts, once more, thy facrilegious hands.
Oh hadft thou, cruel! been content to feize
Hairs lefs in fight, or any hairs but these!
HE faid: the pitying audience melt in tears;
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.
In vain Thaleftris with reproach affails,
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 way'd her fan
Silence enfued, and thus the Nymph began.
Ver. 7. Then grave Clariffa, &c.] A new Character introduced in the subsequent editions, to open more clearly the MORAL of the Poem, in a Parody of the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus in Homer.
Say, why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd most, The wife man's passion, and the vain man's toast ? 10 Why deck'd with all that land and sea 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 dress all day,
Charm'd the small-pox, or chac'd old age away;
Who would not fcorn what housewife's cares pro
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, may 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 grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all fhall fade,
And the who fcorns a man, must die a maid;
What then remains, but well our power to use,
And keep good-humour ftill, whate'er we lose?
And trust me, Dear! good-humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and fcreams, 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 enfued; Belinda frown'd, Thalestris 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 rustle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes and Heroines fhouts confusedly rise,
And bafs and treble voices strike 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 heavenly breafts with human paffions rage;
'Gainft Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms;
Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around,
Blue Neptune ftorms, the bellowing deeps refound: 50
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way,
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height
Clapp'd his glad wings, and fate to view the fight:
Prop'd on their bodkin-fpears, the Sprites furvey
The growing combat, or affift the fray.
While through the prefs enrag'd Thaleftris flies,
And fcatters death around from both her eyes,
A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng,
One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong.
Ver. 37. To arms, to arms!] From hence the first edition goes on to the Conclufion, except a very few short infertions added, to keep the Machinery in view to the end of the poem.
Ver. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] Thefe four lines added, for the reafon before-mentioned.
"O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,"
Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk befide his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caft,
"Those eyes are made fo killing"- -was his last.
Thus on Mæander's flowery margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, and as he fings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clariffa down,
Chloe step'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
She fmil'd to fee the doughty hero flain,
But, at her smile, the Beau revived again.
Now Jove fufpends his golden fcales in air,
Weighs the Mens 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 usual lightning in her eyes:
Nor fear'd the Chief the unequal fight to try,
Who fought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold Lord with manly strength endued,
She with one finger and a thumb subdued:
Juft where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw ;
The Gnomes direct, to every atom juft,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
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 vaft buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells fhe jingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boaft not my fall (he cry'd) infulting foe!
Thou by fome other fhalt 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 still survive,
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 ftrain
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But fee how oft ambitious aims are crofs'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is loft!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In every place is fought, but fought in vain :
With fuch a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heaven decrees! with heaven who can conteft?
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,
Since all things loft on earth are treafur'd there.
There Heroes wits are kept in ponderous vafes,
And Beaux in fnuff-boxes and tweezer-cafes.
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,
And lovers hearts with ends of ribband bound.
The courtier's promises, and fick man's prayers,
The fmiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
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