"O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,"
Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk befide his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caft,
"Thofe eyes are made fo killing"-was his laft.
Thus on Meander's flowery margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, and as he fings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clariffa down,
Chloe ftep'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
She fmil'd to fee the doughty hero flain,
But, at her fmile, the Beau revived again.
Now Jove fufpends his golden fcales in air,
Weighs the Mens 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 the unequal fight to try,
Who fought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold Lord with manly ftrength endued,
She with one finger and a thumb fubdued:
Juft where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
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 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 vaft buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells fhe jingled, and the whistle blew ;
Then in a bodkin graced 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 still survive,
• 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 crofs'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is loft!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In every place is fought, but fought in vain :
With fuch a prize no mortal must be bleft,
So heaven decrees! with heaven who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,
Since all things loft on earth are treafur'd there.
There Heroes wits are kept in ponderous 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 promises, and fick man's prayers,
The finiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoak a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of cafuiftry.
But truft the Mufe-fhe faw it upward rife,
Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew,
To Proculus alone confefs'd in view)
A fudden Star, it fhot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,
The heavens befpangling with difhevel'd light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd purfue its progrefs through the skies.
This the Beau-monde fhall from the Mall furvey,
And hail with mufic its propitious ray.
This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take,⚫
And fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake.
This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudlefs fkies,
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then ceafe, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere !
Not all the treffes that fair head can boast,
Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you lost.
Ver. 131. The Sylphs behold] Thefe two lines added for the fame reafon, to keep in view the Machinery of the Poem.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When thofe fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all those treffes fhall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Mufe fhall confecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name.
7 HAT beckoning ghoft, along the moon-light
fhade,
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis fhe!-but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elfe, ye Powers! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition firft fprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen prifoners in the body's cage :
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
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