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As on the nofegay in her breast reclin'd,
He watch'd th' ideas rifing in her mind,
Sudden he view'd, in fpite of all her art,
An earthly lover lurking at her heart.
Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his power expir'd,
Refign'd to fate, and with a figh retir'd.

The Peer now spreads the glittering forfex, wide,
T' inclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide.
Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd,
A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd;

Fate urg'd the sheers, and cut the Sylph in twain
(But airy fubftance foon unites again),

The meeting points the facred hair diffever
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!



Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, 155
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.
Not louder fhrieks to pitying heaven are cast,
When husbands, or when lap-dogs, breathe their last!
Or when rich China veffels fall'n from high,
In glittering duft and painted fragments lie!

Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine
(The Victor cry'd), the glorious Prize is mine!
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,
Or in a coach and fix the British Fair,

As long as Atalantis fhall be read,
Or the fmall pillow grace a Lady's bed,
While vifits shall be paid on folemn days,
When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze,
While nymphs take treats, or affignations give,
So long my honour, name, and praise, shall live!



170 What

What Time would fpare, from Steel receives its date,
And monuments, like men, fubmit to fate!
Steel could the labour of the Gods destroy,
And strike to duft th' imperial towers of Troy;
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.


What wonder then, fair Nymph! thy hairs should feel The conquering force of unrefifted steel?



UT anxious cares the penfive Nymph oppress'd,
And fecret paffions labour'd in her breast.
Not youthful kings in battle feiz'd alive,

Not fcornful virgins who their charms furvive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their blifs,
Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kifs,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,

Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry,
E'er felt fuch rage, refentment, and despair,
As thou, fad Virgin! for thy ravish'd Hair.

For, that fad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew, And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,


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Ver. 11. For, that fad moment, &c.] All the lines from hence to the 94th verfe, defcribe the house of Spleen, and are not in the first edition; instead of them followed only these :

While her rack'd Soul repofe and peace requires,
The fierce Thaleftris fans the rifing fires.

and continued at the 94th verfe of this Canto,

Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
As ever fully'd the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
Repair'd to fearch the gloomy Cave of Spleen.
Swift on his footy pinions flits the Gnome,
And in a vapour reach'd the difmal dome.
No chearful breeze this fullen region knows,
The dreaded Eaft is all the wind that blows.
Here in a grotto, fhelter'd clofe from air,

And screen'd in fhades from day's detefted glare,
She fighs for ever on her penfive bed,

Pain at her fide, and Megrim at her head.



Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, 25 But differing far in figure and in face.

Here ftood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,

Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;

With ftore of prayers, 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 languishes with pride,
On the rich quilt finks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show.
The fair-ones feel fuch maladies as thefe,
When each new night-dress gives a new disease.
A conftant Vapour o'er the palace flies;
Strange phantoms rifing as the mists arife;
Dreadful, as hermits dreams in haunted shades,
Or bright, as vifions of expiring maids.





Now glaring fiends, and fnakes on rolling fpires,
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires :
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elyfian scenes,
And crystal domes, and Angels in machines.

Unnumber'd throngs on every 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 a jar, and there a goofe-pye talks ;
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works,
And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.



Safe past the Gnome through this fantastic band, 55 A branch of healing Spleen-wort in his hand,


Then thus addrefs'd the Power-Hail, wayward Queen!
Who rule the fex to fifty from fifteen:
Parent of vapours, and of female wit,
Who give the hysteric, or poetic fit,
On various tempers act by various ways,
Make fome take phyfic, others fcribble plays;
Who cause the proud their vifits to delay,
And fend the godly in a pet to pray.

A Nymph there is, that all thy power 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 lofing game;
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,

Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,



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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 discontented air
Seems to reject him, though the grants his prayer.
A wonderous bag with both her hands the binds,
Like that where once Ulyffes held the winds;
There the collects the force of female lungs,
Sighs, fobs, and paffions, and the war of tongues.
A Vial next she fills with fainting fears,
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.
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
And fierce Thaleftris fans the rifing fire.

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O wretched maid! the fpread her hands, and cry'd, 95
(While Hampton's echoes, wretched maid! reply'd)
Was it for this you took fuch constant care
The bodkin, comb, and effence, to prepare ?
For this your locks in paper durance bound,
For this with torturing irons wreath'd around?
For this with fillets ftrain'd your tender head,
And bravely bore the double loads of lead!
L 2



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