Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away;
Who would not fcorn what housewife's cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might 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 gray;
Since painted, or not painted, all fhall fade,
And she who fcorns a man must die a maid;
What, then, remains, but well our pow'r to use,
And keep good-humour ftill, whate'er we lofe?
And trust me, Dear, good-humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
Beaut es in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
Charms frike the fight, but merit wins the foul.
So fpoke the Dame, but no applaufe enfu'd ;
Belinda frówn'd; Thaleftris 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 ruftle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes and Heroines fhouts confus'dly rife,
And bafe and treble voices ftrike the fkies.
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 heav'nly breasts with human passions rage;
'Gainft Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around, Blue Neptune ftorms, the bellowing deeps refound: Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel, on a fconce's height, Clapp'd his glad wings, and fate to view the fight: Propp'd on their bodkin fpears, the fprites furvey The growing combat, or affift the fray.
While thro' the press enrag'd Thaleftris flies,
And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng,
One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong.
"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 flow'ry margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, and, as he fings, he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clariffa down,
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain,
But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again.
Now Jove fufpends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the men's 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 ufual lightning in her eyes:
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,
Who fought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold Lord, with manly ftrength endu'd,
She with one finger and a thumb fubdu'd:
Juft where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom juft,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nofe.
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 vast buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew;
The bells fhe gingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin grac'd 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 ftill furvive
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 cross'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is loft!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In ev'ry place is fought, but fought in vain :
With fuch a prize no mortal must be bleft;
So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar fphere,
Since all things loft on earth are treasur'd there.
There hero's wits are kept in pond'rous 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 promifes, and fick man's pray'rs,
The fmiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
Cages for knats, and chains to yoak a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of cafuistry.
But trust the Mufe-fhe faw 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 confefs'd in view)
A fudden Star, it shot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant tail of hair.
Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,
The heav'ns bespangling with dishevel❜d light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And, pleas'd, purfue its progrefs thro' the skies.
This the Beau-monde shall from the Mall furvey,
And hail with mufic its propitious ray.
This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take,
And send up vows from Rofamonda's lake.
This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks thro' Galilæo's eyes ;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd
Which adds new glory to the fhining sphere!
Not all the treffes that fair head can boast,
Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you loft.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When thofe fair funs fhall fet, as fet they must,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in dust,
This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name.
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