Here ftood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,

Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;

With ftore of pray'rs for mornings, nights, and noons,
Her hand is fill'd; her bofom with lampoons.
There Affectation, with a fickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
Practis'd to lifp, and hang the head afide,
Faints into airs and languifhes with pride,
On the rich quilt finks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for fickness, and for show.
The fair ones feel fuch maladies as thefe,
When each new night-drefs gives a new disease.
A conftant vapour o'er the palace flies;
Strange phantoms rifing as the mifts arife;
Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted fhades,
Or bright, as vifions of expiring maids.
Now glaring fiends, and fñakes on rolling spires,
Pàle spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires :
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elyfian fcenes,
And cryftal domes, and Angels in machines.

Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry fide are seen,
Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen.
Here living Tea-pots ftand, one arm held out,
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:
A Pipkin there, like Homer's Tripod walks ;
Here fighs à Jar, and there a † Goose-pye talks ;
Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works,
And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.

Safe paft the Gnome thro' this fantastic band,
A branch of healing Spleenwort in his hand.
Then thus addrefs'd the pow'r-Hail wayward Queen!
Who rule the fex to fifty from fifteen :

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Parent of vapours and of female wit,

Who give th' hyfteric, or poetic fit,

On various tempers act by various ways,

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Make fome take phyfic, others fcribble plays;

Alludes to a real fact a Lady of distinction imagin'd herself in this condition.

VOL. I.

P

Whe

Who cause the proud their vifits to delay,
And fend the godly in a pet, to pray.

A Nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains,
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
But oh! 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 airy horns I planted heads,
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
Or caus'd fufpicion when no foul was rude,
Or difcompos'd the head-drefs of a Prude,
Or e'er to coftive lap-dog gave disease,

Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease:
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin :
That fingle act gives half the world the spleen.

The Goddess with a difcontented air

Seems to reject him, tho' fhe grants his pray'r.

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A wond'rous Bag with both her hands the binds,
Like that where once Ulyffes held the winds;
There fhe colle&ts the force of female lungs,
Sighs, fobs, and paffions, and the war of tongues.
A Vial next fhe fills with fainting fears,

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Soft forrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.

The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,

Spreads his black wings, and flowly mounts to day.
Sunk in Thaleftris' arms the nymph he found,

Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound.
Full o'er their heads the fwelling bag he rent,
And all the Furies iffued at the vent.

ge

Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
And fierce Thaleftris fans the rifing fire.

O wretched maid! fhe spread her hands, and cry'd,
(While Hampton's echoes, wretched maid! reply'd)
Was it for this you took fuch conftant care
The bodkin, comb, and effence to prepare ?
For this your locks in paper durance bound,
For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around?

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For this with fillets ftrain'd your tender head,
And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
Gods! fhall the ravifher difplay your hair,
While the Fops envy, and the Ladies ftare!
Honour forbid! at whose unrival'd fhrine
Eafe, pleasure, virtue, all our fex refign.
Methinks already I your tears survey,
Already hear the horrid things they say,
Already fee you a degraded toast,
And all your honour in a whisper loft!

How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?
"Twill then be infamy to feem your friend!
And fhall this prize, th' ineftimable prize,
Expos'd thro' cryftal to the gazing eyes,
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?
Sooner fhall grafs in Hyde-park Circus grow,
And wits take lodgings in the found of Bow;
Sooner let earth, air, fea, to Chaos fall,
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!
She faid; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,
And bids her Beau demand the precious hairs:
(Sir Plume, of amber fnuff-box juftly vain,
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,
He firft the fnuff-box open'd, then the cafe,

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And thus broke out-" My Lord, why, what the devil?
"Z---ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!
Plague on't! tis past a jeft---nay prithee, pox!
"Give her the hair"---he spoke, and rapp'd his box. 130
It grieves me much (reply'd the Peer again)
Who speaks fo well should ever speak in vain.
But by this Lock, this facred Lock I fwear,
(Which never more shall join its parted hair;
Which never more its honours fhall renew,
Clip'd from the lovely head where late it grew)
That while my nostrils draw the vital air,
This hand which won it, fhall for ever wear.

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He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph fpread
The long-contended honours of her head.

But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not fo;
He breaks the Vial whence the forrows flow.
Then fee! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,
Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears;
On her heav'd bofom hung her drooping head,
Which, with a figh, the rais'd; and thus fhe faid.
For ever curs'd be this detefted day,
Which fnatch'd my beft, my fav'rite curl away !
Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,

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If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen!
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,
By love of Courts to num'rous ills betray'd,
Oh had I rather unadmir'd remain'd
In fome lone ifle, or diftant Northern land;
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er tafte Bohea!
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,
Like roses, that in defarts bloom and die,
What mov'd my mind with youthful Lords to roam ?
O had I ftay'd, and faid my pray'rs at home! 160
'Twas this, the morning omens feem'd to tell;
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
The tott'ring China shook without a wind,
Nay Poll fat mute, and Shock was moft unkind!
A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate,
In myftic vifions, now believ'd too late!
See the poor remnants of these flighted hairs!
My hands fhall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares :
Thefe, in two fable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the fnowy neck;
The fifter-lock now fits uncouth; alone,
And in its fellow's fate forefees 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 thefe !

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THE

RAPE OF THE LOCK.

CANTO V,

HE faid: the pitying audience melt in tears;
But Fate and Jove had ftopp'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 wav'd her fan;
Silence enfu'd, and thus the nymph began.

Say, why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd moft,
The wife man's paffion, and the vain man's toaft?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,

Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd?

Why round our coaches croud the white-glov'd Beaus,
Why bows the fide-box from its inmoft rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense 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 fmall-pox, or chas'd old age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a faint,
Nor could it fure be fuch a fin to paint ;
But fince, alas! frail beauty muft decay,
Curl'd or uncurl'd, fince Locks will turn to grey;

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