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Boaft not my fall (he cry'd) infulting foe!
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 conteft? 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, 115 And Beau's 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 smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoak a flea, Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of cafuiftry.
114. Since all things loft] Vid. Ariosto, Canto xxxiv.
But truft 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 trail of hair.
Not Berenice's Locks first rofe fo bright,
This the Beau monde shall from the Mall furvey, And hail with mufic its propitious ray.
This the blest Lover shall for Venus take,
VER. 137. This Partridge foon] John Partridge was a ridiculous Star-gazer, who in his Almanacks every year never fail'd to predict the downfall of the Pope, and the King of France, then at war with the English.
VER. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added for the fame reafon to keep in view the Machinery of the Poem.
Flammiferumque trahens fpatiofo limite crinem
Then ceafe, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,
Which adds new glory to the fhining sphere!
To the MEMORY of an
HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moonlight fhade
Invites my fleps, and points to yonder glade ?
Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul afpire
a See the Duke of Buckingham's verfes to a Lady designing to retire into a Monaftery compar'd with Mr. Pope's Letters to feveral Ladies, p. 206. quarto Edition. She feems to be the fame perfon whofe unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood! See on thefe ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes muit roll no more. Thus, if eternal juftice rules the ball, 35 Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a fudden vengeance waits, And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates. There paffengers fhall ftand and pointing fay, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) Lo thefe were they, whofe fouls the Furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.