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What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam!
“Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most,
That men may say, when we the front box grace,
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued:
So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound, 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 sat to view the fight :
Propp'd on their bodkin-spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perish'd in the throng One died in metaphor, and one in song.
O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,' Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance sir Fopling upwards cast : “Those eyes are made so killing- was his last. Thus on Meander's flowery margin lies The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again.
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
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 sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, She with one finger and a thumb subdued : Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The Gnomes direct, to every atom just, 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,' incensed Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side; (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
*Boast not my fall,' he cried, 'insulting foe!
'Restore the lock,' she cries; and all around,
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasured there : There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer cases : There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound; The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
But trust the muse-she saw it upward rise, Though mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes ; (So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view :) A sudden star it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The heavens bespangling with dishevellid light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey,
Then cease,bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For, after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock the muse shall consecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? "Tis she !--but why that bleeding bosom gored ? Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well ? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart ? To act a lover's or a Roman's part ? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die ?
Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?