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As men of breeding, fometimes men of wit,
T'avoid great errors, muft the lefs commit;
Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays,
For not to know fome trifles is a praife.
Moft Critics, fond of fome fubfervient art,
Still make the Whole depend upon a Part:
They talk of principles, but notions prize;
And all to one lov'd folly facrifice.
Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they fay,
A certain Bard encount'ring on the way,
Difcours'd in terms as juft, with looks as fage,
As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage;
Concluding all were defp'rate fots and fools
Who duft depart from Ariftotle's rules.
Our Author, happy in a judge fo nice,
Produc'd his play, and begg'd the Knight's advice;
Made him obferve the fubject and the plot,
The manners, paffions, unities; what not?
All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
Were but a Combat in the lifts left out.
"What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the
Yes, or we muft renounce the Stagyrite. "Not fo, by heaven !" he answers in a rage; "Knights, 'fquires, and steeds, must enter on the "stage."
So vaft a throng the ftage can ne'er contain.
"Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
Thus Critics of lefs judgment than caprice,
Curious, not knowing; not exact, but nice,
Form fhort ideas; and offend in arts
(As moft in manners) by a love to parts.
Some to Conceit alone their taste confine,
And glitt'ring thoughts ftruck out at ev'ry line;
Pleas'd with a work where nothing's juft or fit;
One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit.
Poets, like painters, thus, unfkill'd to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True wit is Nature to advantage drefs'd;
What oft was thought, but ne'er fo well exprefs'd;
Something, whofe truth convinc'd at fight we find,
That gives us back the image of our mind.
As fhades more fweetly recommend the light,
So modett plainnefs fets off fprightly wit.
For works may have more wit than does 'en good,
As bodies perith thro' excefs of blood.
Others for language all their care exprefs, And value books, as women men, for drets: Their praife is ftill-The Style is excellent; The Senfe they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and, where they moft abound,
A vile conceit, in pompous words expreft,
Is like a clown in regal purple dreft:
For diff'rent ftyles with diff'rent subjects fort,
As fev'ral garbs with country, town, and court.
Some, by old words, to fame have made pretence;
Ancients in phrafe, mere moderns in their fenfe :
Such labour'd nothings, in fo ftrange a ftyle,
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned fmile.
Unlucky as Fungofo in the play,
Thefe fparks, with awkward vanity, difplay
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;
And but fo mimic ancient wits at best,
As apes our grandfires, in their doublets dreft.
In words, as fashions, the fame rule will hold;
Alike fantastic, if too new or old.
Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
yet the laft to lay the old afide.
But most by numbers judge a poet's fong;
And finooth or rough with them is right or wrong:
In the bright Mufe tho' thoufand charms confpire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ;
Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church repair
Not for the doctrine, but the mufic there.
Thete equal fyllables alone require,
Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:
While they ring round the fame unvaried chimes,
With fure returns of ftill expected rhymes;
Where'er you find " the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line," it whispers thro' the trees :'
If cryftal streams "with pleafing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "fleep."
Then, at the laft and only couplet fraught
With fome unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong, [along.
That, like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhymes, and
What's roundly fmooth, or languifhingly flow;
And praife the cafy vigour of a line
Where Denham's ftrength and Waller's sweetness
True cafe in writing comes from art, not chance;
As thofe move cafieft who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The found muft feem an echo to the fenfe:
Soft is the ftrain when zephyr gently blows,
And the fmooth ftream in fmoother numbers flows:
But when loud furges lafh the founding thore,
The hoarfe, rough verfe fhould like the torrent
When Ajax ftrives fome rock's vaftweight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow :
Not fo, when fwift Camilla fcours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays furprise,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love:
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal ost, and tears begin to flow:
Perfians and Grecks like turns of nature found, | Scotifts and Thomifts now in peace remain
And the world's victor stood subdued by found :| Amidft their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
The pow'r of music all our hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid extremes, and fhun the fault of fuch
Who ftill are pleas'd too little or too much.
At ev'ry trifle fcorn to take offence;
That always fhews great pride, or little fenfe :
Thofe heads, as ftomachs, are not fure the best,
Which naufeate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of fente approve :
As things feem large which we thro' mifts defery;
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
If faith itself has diff'rent dreffes worn,
What wonder modes in wit fhould take their turn!
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think the reputation fafe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
Some foreign writers, fome our own, defpife;
The ancients only, or the moderns, prize.
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
To one fmall fect, and all are damn'd befide.
Meanly they feck the bleffing to confine,
And force that fun but on a part to fhine,
Which not alone the fouthern wit fublimes,
But ripens fpirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the firft has fhone on ages paft,
Enlights the prefent, and fhall warm the last;
Tho each may feel increafes and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the falfe, and value still the true.
Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the fpreading notion of the town;
They reafon and conclude by precedent,
And own ftale nonienfe which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors' names, not works; and then
Nor praife nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this fervile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulnefs joins with quality:
A conftant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonfenfe for my lord:
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
In fome ftarv'd hackuey fonnetteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the ftyle refines!
Before his facred name flies ev'ry fault,
And cach exalted stanza teems with thought! -
The vulgar thus thro' imitation err;
As oft the learn'd by being fingular:
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purpofcly go wrong:
So fchifinatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praife at morning what they blame at night;
But always think the laft opinion right.
A Mufe by thefe is like a miftrefs us'd;
This hour the 's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
'Twixt fenfe and nonfenfe daily change their fide.
Afk them the caufe; they're wifer ftill, they fay;
And ftill to-morrow's wifer than to-day.
We think our fathers fools, fo wife we grow;
Our wifer fons, no doubt, will think us fo.
Once fchool-divines this zealous ifle o'erspread;
Who knew moft fentences was deepest read:
Faith, Gofpel, all seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted:
Some valuing thofe of their own fide or mind,
Still make themfelves the measure of mankind !
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various fhapes of parfons, critics, beaux:
But fenfe furviv'd when merry jefts were paft,
For riding merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and blefs once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arife:
Nay, fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would ftart up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, purfue;
But, like a shadow, proves the substance true :
For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groffnefs, not its own.
When first that fun too pow'rful beams difplays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev'n thofe clouds at laft adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.
Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praife is loft who stays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch wits furviv'd a thousand years;
Now length of fame (our fecond life) is loft,
And bare threefcore is all e'en that can boaft;
Our fons their fathers' failing language fee,
And fuch as Chaucer is fhall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has defign'd
Some bright idea of the mafter's mind,
Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
When the ripe colours soften and unite,
And fweetly melt into juft fhade and light;
When mellowing years their full perfection give,
And each bold figure juft begins to live;
The treach rous colours the fair art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away!
Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
Atones not for that envy which it brings.
In youth alone its empty praise we boat;
But foon the fhort-liv'd vanity is loft:
Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies,
That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
What is this wit, which muft our cares employ?
The owner's wife, that other m. n enjoy :
Then most our trouble ftill when most admir'd,
And fill the more we give, the more requir'd;
Whose fame with pains we guard, but lofe with
Sure fome to vex, but never all to pleafe: [eafe,
Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun;
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone !
If wit fo much from ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, thofe met rewards who could excel,
And fuch were prais'd who but endeavour'd well
Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
Crowns were referv'd to grace the foldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnaffus' lofty crown
Employ their pains to fpurn fome others down;
And while felf-love cach jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the fport of fools:
But ftill the worst with most regret commend,
For each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what bafe ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urg'd through facred luft of praife!
Ah! ne'er fo dive a thirst of glory boat,
Nor in the critic let the man be loft.
Good-nature and good fenfe muft ever join:
To err is human; to forgive, divine.
But if in noble minds fome dregs remain,
Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and four difdain,
Difcharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in thefe flagitious times.
No pardon vile obfcenity should find,
Tho' wit and art confpire to move your mind;
But dulnefs with obfcenity must prove
As thameful fure as impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleafure, wealth, and cafe,
Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large
When love was all an eafy monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war,
Jilts rul'd the ftate, and ftatefinen farces writ;
Nay, wits had penfions, and young lords had wit:
The fair fat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mafk went unimprov'd away :
The modeft fan was lifted up no more;
And virgins fmil'd at what they blufh'd before.
The following licenfe of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
Then unbelieving pricfts reform'd the nation,
And taught more pleafant methods of falvation;
Where Heaven's free fubjects might their rights
Left God himself should feem too abfolute:
Pulpits their facred fatire learn'd to spare,
And vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there!
Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
And the prefs groan'd with licens'd blafphemies.
Thefe monsters, critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhauft your rage!
Yet fhun their fault, who, fcandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an author into vice:
All feems infected that th' infected ipy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.
Learn then what morals critics ought to fhew,
For 'tis but half a judge's talk to know.
Tis not enough, taffe, judgment, learning, join;
Jo all you fpeak, let truth and candour thine:
That not alone what to your fenfe is due
All may allow, but feck your friendship too.
Be filent always when you doubt your fenfe;
And fpeak, tho' fure, with feeming diffidence:
Some pofitive, perfifting fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always fo;
But you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the laft.
'Tis not enough your counfel ftill be true;
: ¦ Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do:
Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.
Without good-breeding, truth is difapprov'd;
That only makes fuperior fenfe belov’d.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
For the wort avarice is that of fenfe.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
Nor be fo civil as to prove unjuft.
Fear not the anger of the wife to raife;
Thofe beft can bear reproof who merit praife.
'I were well might critics ftill this freedom take;
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
And ftares tremendous, with a threat'nig eye,
Like fome fierce tyrant in old tapestry.
Fear moft to tax an honourable fool,
Whofe right it is, uncenfur'd, to be dull;
Such, without wit, are poets when they pleafe,
As without learning they can take degrees.
Leave darg'rous truths to unfuccessful fatires,
And Hattery to fulfome dedicators, [more
Whom, when they praife, the world believes no
Than when they promife to give fcribbling o'er.
'Tis beft fometimes your cenfure to restrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain :
Your filence there is better than your fpite;
For who can rail fo long as they can write?
Still Humming on, their drowfy course they keep,
And Lath'd fo long, like tops, are lash'd afleep.
Falfe fteps but help them to renew the race;
As, after ftumbling, jades will mend their pace.
What crowds of thele, impenitently bold,
In founds and jingling fyllables grown old,
Still run on poets in a raging vein,
Ev'n to the dregs and fqueezings of the brain;
Strain out the aft dull droppings of their ferfe,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence !
Such flameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,"
There are as mad abandon'd critics too.
The book fui blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head,
With his own tongue ftill edifies his cars,
And always hit'ning to himself appears.
All books he reads, and all he reads affails,
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales:
With him, mot authors fteal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Difpenfary.
Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's friend,
Nav fhew'd his faults; but when would Poets mend?
No place to facred from fuch fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's church more fafe than Paul's church
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead;
For Fools ruth in where Angels fear to read.
Diftrufful fenfe with modeft caution speaks,
It ftill looks home, and fhort excurfions makes;
But rattling nonfenfe in full vollies breaks,
And never thock'd, and never turn'd afide,
Burfts out, refiftlefs, with a thund'ring tide.
But where's the man who counsel can beftow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbiafs'd
Unbiafs'd or by favour or by spite;
Nor dully prepoffefs'd, nor blindly right;
Tho learn'd well-bred, and tho' well-bred fincere,
Modely bold, and humanly fevere;
Who to a friend his faults can freely fhew,
And gladly praife the merit of a foe
Bleft with a talte exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of books and human kind;
Gen'rous converfe; a foul exempt from pride;
And love to praife, with reafon on his fide?
Such once were Critics; fuch the happy few
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite fi ft left the thore,
Spread all his fails, and durft the deeps explore;
He fteer'd fecurely, and difcover'd far,
Led by the light of the Maonian Star.
Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of favage liberty,
Receiv'd his laws, and flood convinc'd; 'twas fit,
Who conquer'd Nature thould prefide o'er Wit.
Horace itill charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into fenie;
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The trueft notions in the eatieft way.
He who, fupreme in judgment as in wit,
Might boldly cenfure, as he boldly writ;
Yet judg'd with coolnefs, tho' he fung with fire;
His Precepts teach but what his Works infpire.
Our Critics take a contrary extreme;
They judge with fury, but they writewith phlegm;
Nor fuffers Horace more in wrong tranflations
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.
See Dionyfius Homer's thoughts refine,
And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line!
Fancy and art in gay Petronius pleafe;
The fcholar's learning, with the courtier's cafe.
grave Quintilian's copious work we find
The justeft rules and clearest method join'd:
Thus ufefui arms in magazines we place,
All rang'd in order, and difpos'd with grace;
But lefs to please the eye than arin the hand;
Still fit for ufe, and ready at command.
Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine infpire,
And bless their Critic with a Poet's fire.
An ardent Judge, who, zealous in his trust,
With warmth gives fentence, yet is always juft:
Whole own example ftrengthens all his laws;
And is himself that great Sublime he draws.
Thus long fucceeding Critics juftly reign'd,
Licenfe reprefs'd, and ufeful laws ordain'd.
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
And Arts ftill follow'd where her Eagles flow:
From the fame foes, at laft, both felt their
Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age,
And drove thofe holy Vandals off the ftage.
But fee each Mufe, in Leo's golden days,
Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bayss
Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its ruins fpread,
Shakes off the duft, and rears his rev'rend head.
Then Sculpture and her fifter-arts revive;
Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live;
With fweeter notes each rifing Temple rung;
A Raphael painted, and a Vida fung.
Immortal Vida! on whofe honour'd brow
The Poet's bays and Critic's ivy grow,
Cremona now fhall ever boast thy name;
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!
But foon by impious arms from Latium chas'd,
Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pafs'd;
Thence Arts o'er all the northern world advance,
But Critic-learning flourish'd moft in France;
The rules a nation, born to ferve, obeys;
And Boileau ftill in right of Horace fways.
But we, brave Britons, foreign laws defpis'd,
And kept unconquer'd and unciviliz'd;'
Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
We ftill defied the Romans, as of old.
Yet fome there were, among the founder few
Of thofe who lefs prefum'd, and better knew,
Who durft allert the jufter ancient canfe,
And here rettor'd Wit's fundamental laws;
Such was the Mufe whofe rules and practice tell,
"Nature's chief Mafter-piece is writing well."
Such was Rofcommon, not more learn'd than good,
With manners gen'rous as his noble blood;
To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And ev'ry author's merit, but his own.
Such late was Walsh, the Mufe's judge and friend
Who justly knew to blame or to commend,
Tofailings mild, but zealous for defert;
The clearest head, and the fincereft heart.
This humble praife, lamented fhade! receive,
This praife at least a grateful Mufe may give.
The Mufe whofe early voice you taught to fing,
Preferib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing,
(Her guide now loft) no more attempts to rife,
But in low numbers fhort excurfions tries: [view;
Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may
The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:
Carelefs of cenfure, nor too fond of fame;
Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame :
Averie alike to flatter, or offend;
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend,
Slight is the fubject, but not fo the praise,
If She infpire, and He approve my lays.
Say what ftrange motive, Goddefs! could compel
A well-bred Lord t' affault a gentle Belle?
O fay what ftranger caufe, yet unexplor'd,
Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?
In talks fo bold can little men engage?
And in foft bofoms dwells fuch mighty rage?
Sol thro' white curtains fhot a tim'rous ray,
And op'd thofe eyes that muft eclipfe the day:
Now lap-dogs gave themselves the roufing shake;
And fleepless lovers, juft at twelve, awake:
Thrice rung the bell, the flipper knock'd the
And the prefs'd watch return'd a filver found.
Belinda ftill her downy pillow prefs'd,
Her guardian Sylph prolong'd the balmy reft-
'Twas He had fummon'd to her filent bed
The morning-dream that hover'd o'er her head-
A youth more glitt’ring than a birth-night beau,
That even in flumber caus'd her cheek to glow,
Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay,
And thus in whispers faid, or feem'd to say:
Fairest of mortals, thou diftinguifh'd care
Of thoufand bright inhabitants of air!
If e'er one vifion tonch thy infant thought,
Of all the Nurfe and all the Prieft have taught;
Of airy elves by moonlight fhadows feen,
The filver token, and the circled green,
Or virgins vifited by Angel-pow'rs, [flow'rs!
With golden crowns, and wreaths of heavenly
Hear and believe! thy own importance know,
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
Some fecret truths, from learned pride conccal'd,
To maids alone and children are reveal'd:
What tho' no credit doubting wits may give?
The fair and innocent thall ftill believe.
Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly,
The light Militia of the lower fky:
Thefe, tho' unfeen, are ever on the wing,
Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring.
Think what an equipage thou haft in air,
And view with fcorn two pages and a chair.
As now your own, our beings were of old,
And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould,
Thence, by a foft transition, we repair
From earthly vehicles to thefe of air.
Know further yet-whoever fair and chafte
Rejects mankind, is by fome fylph embrac'd:
For fpirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease
Affume what fexes and what shapes they please
What guards the purity of melting maids
In courtly balls and midnight masquerades,
Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring fpark,
The glance by day, the whifper in the dark,
When kind occafion prompts their warm defires,
When mufic foftens, and when dancing fires?
'Tis but their fylph, the wife celeftials know,
Tho' honour is the word with inen below. [face,
Some nymphs there are, too confcious of their
For life predeftin'd to the gnomes' embrace.
Thefe fwell their profpects and exalt their pride,
When offers are difdain'd, and love denied:
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, [train,
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping
And garters, ftars, and coronets appear,
And in foft founds "your grace" falutes their car.
'Tis thefe that early taint the female foul,
Instruct the eye of young coquettes to roll,
Teach infant-cheeks a hidden blush to know,
And little hearts to flutter at a beau.
Oft, when the world imagine women stray,
The fylphs thro' myftic mazes guide their way
Thro' all the giddy circle they purfue,
And old impertinence expel by new.
What tender maid but must a victim fall
To one man's treat, but for another's ball?
When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand,
If gentle Damon did not fqueeze her hand?
With varying vanities, from ev'ry part,
They thift the moving toy-fhop of their heart;
Where wigs with wigs, with fword-knots sword-
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
This erring mortals levity may call;
Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.
Of thefe am I, who thy protection claim;
A watchful fprite, and Ariel is my name,
Late as I rang'd the cryftal wilds of air,
In the clear mirror of thy ruling ftar
I faw, alas! fome dread event impend,
Ere to the main this morning fun defcend;
But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where:
Warn'd by thy Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!
Think not, when woman's tranfient breath is fled, This to difclofe is all thy guardian can :
That all her vanities at once are dead;
Succeeding vanities fhe ftill regards,
Beware of all, but most beware of man! [long,
And, tho' fhe plays no more, o'erlooks the cards.
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive,
And love of ombre, after death furvive;
For when the fair in all their pride expire,
To their firft elements their fouls retire:
The fprites of fiery termagints in flame
Mount up, and take a falamander's name.
Soft yielding minds to water glide away,
And fip, wi nymphs, their elemental tea.
The graver prude finks downward to a gnome,
In fearch of mischief ftill on earth to roam.
The light coquettes in fylphs aloft repair,
And fport and flutter in the helds of air.
He faid; when Shock, who thought the flept too
Leap'd up, and wak'd his miftrefs with his tongue.
'Twas then, Belinda, if report fay true,
Thy eyes firft open'd on a billet-doux;
Wounds, charms, and ardours, were no fooner read,
But all the vifion vanith'd from thy head.
And now, unveil'd, the toilet ftands difplay'd;
Each filver vafe in myftic order laid.
First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores,
With head uncover'd, the cofinetic pow'rs:
A heavenly image in the glafs appears;
To that the bends, to that her eyes the rears;
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's fide,
Trembling, begins the facred rites of pride.