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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, 75
With more than usual lightning in her eyes :
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,
Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold Lord with manly strength endu'd,
She with one finger and a thumb subdu’d: 80
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o’erflows, 85
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 side.
(The same, his ancient personage to deck,
Her great great grandfire wore about his neck, go

NOTE s.
VER. 71, Now Jove, etc.] Vid. Homer Il. viii. and Virg.
· Æn. xii. P.

IMITATIONS.
Ver. 83. The Gnornes direct,] These two lines added for
the above reason. P.

VER. 89. The fome, his antient personage to deck,] In imita-
tion of the progress of Agamemncn's sceptre in Homer, Il. ii. P.

ICW;

În 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,
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, 95
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)

Boast not my fall (he cry'd) insulting foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind! 100
Rather than so, ah let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames ---but burn alive.

Restore the Lock! she cries; and all around
Restore the Lock! the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 105,
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
The Lock, obtain’d with guilt, and kept with pain,
In ev'ry place is fought, but sought in vain : 110
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heav'n decrees! with heav’n who can contest?

Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere, Since all things loft on earth are treasur'd there. There Hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And Beau's in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 116 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 pray’rs, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120 Cages for gnats, and chains to yoak a flea, Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. * But trust the Muse---she saw it upward rise, Tho' mark’d by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confess’d in view) 126 A sudden Star, it shot thro' liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. . Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright, The heav'ns bespangling with dishevel'd light. 130

Notes. VER. 114. Since all things loft] Vid. Ariosto, Canto xxxiv. P.

IMITATIONS.
Ver. 128.

Flammiferumque trahens spatioso limite crinem
Stella ricat

Ovid.

The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd pursue its progress thro’ the skies.

This the Beau monde shall from the Mall survey,
And hail with music its propitious ray.
This the blest Lover shall for Venus take, 135
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.
This Partridge foon shall view in cloudless skics,
When next he looks thro’ Galilæo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 140
Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra.

vish'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 cye, 145 When, after millions Nlain, yourself shall die ;

VARIATIONS. Ver. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added for the fame reason to keep in view the Machinery of the Pocm. P.

Notes. VER: 137. This Partridge foon] John Partridge was a ridiculous Star-gazer, who in his Almanacks every year never fail'd to predict the downfall of the Pope, and the King of France, then at war with the English. P.

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