'Twas this, the morning omens seem'd to tell,
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
The tottering China shook without a wind,
Nay Poll fat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of Fate,
In mystic visions, now believ'd too late!
See the poor remnants of these flighted hairs !
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares :
These in two sable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;
The fister-lock now fits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal sheers demands,
And tempts, once more, thy facrilegious hands.
Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!
HE faid: the pitying audience melt in tears;
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.
In vain Thalestris with reproach affails,
For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,
While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clarifsa graceful wav'd her fan ;
Silence ensued, and thus the Nymph began.
Ver. 7. Then grave Clarissa, &c.] A new Character introduced in the subsequent editions, to open more clearly the MORAL of the Poem, in a Parody of the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus in Homer.
Say, why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd most,
The wife man's paffion, and the vain man's toast ?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why Angels call'd and Angel-like ador'd?
Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd Beaux,
Why bows the fide-box from its inmost rows ?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:
That men may say, 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 small-pox, or chac'd old age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares pro-
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, may 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, since Locks will turn to grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;
What then remains, but well our power to use,
And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose ?
And trust me, Dear! good-humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;.
Charms strike the fight, but merit wins the foul.
So spoke the Dame, but no applaufe ensued; Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her Prude.
To arms, to arms! the fierce Virago cries,
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
All fide in parties, and begin th' attack;
Fans clap, filks rustle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes and Heroines shouts confusedly rise,
And bafs and treble voices strike the skies.
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 heavenly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 50 Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height
Clapp'd his glad wings, and fate to view the fight:
Prop'd on their bodkin-spears, the Sprites survey
The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While through the press enrag'd Thalestris 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.
Ver. 37. To arms, to arms!] From hence the first edition goes on to the Conclufion, except a very few short infertions added, to keep the Machinery in view to the end of the poem.
Ver. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] These four lines added, for the reason before-mentioned.
"O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,"
Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk beside his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
"Those eyes are made so killing" was his last.
Thus on Mæander's flowery margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
Chloe step'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
She smil'd to fee the doughty hero flain,
But, at her smile, the Beau revived again.
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the Mens wits against the Lady's hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
With more than usual 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 strength endued,
She with one finger and a thumb fubdued:
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
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 same, his ancient personage 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 she jingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boast not my fall (he cry'd) insulting foe!
Thou by fome other shalt be laid as low.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than so, ah let me still furvive,
And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive.
Restore the Lock, she cries; and all around
Restore the Lock! the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
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 such a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heaven decrees! with heaven who can conteft ?
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 vases,
And Beaux in snuff-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 smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
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