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Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins, Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins ; Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye: Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain ; Or alum styptics, with contracting power, Shrink his thin essence like a shrivell’d flower : Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill, In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below!

He spoke ; the spirits from the sails descend: Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair ; Some hang upon the pendants of her ear ; With beating hearts the dire event they wait, Anxious and trembling for the birth of fate.

DESCRIPTION OF OMBRE.

FROM THE SAME.

BEHOLD, four Kings in majesty revered,
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ;
And four fair Queens, whose hands sustain a

flower,
Th'expressive emblem of their softer power :
Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band ;
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand ;
And party-colour'd troops, a shining train,
Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain.

The skilful nymph reviews her force with care : Let Spades be trumps ! she said, and trumps they

were.
Now move to war her sable Matadores,
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.
Spadillio first, unconquerable Lord !
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.
As many more Manillio forced to yield,
And march'd a victor from the verdant field,
Him Basto follow'd, but, his fate more hard,
Gain'd but one trump, and one plebeian card.
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,
The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd,
The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd.
The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,
Proves the just victim of his royal rage.
Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'er-

threw,
And mow'd down armies in the fights of Loo,
Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,
Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade !

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ;
Now to the Baron fate inclines the field.
His warlike Amazon her host invades,
Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades.
The Clubs' black tyrant first her victim died,
Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride :
What boots the regal circle on his head,
His giant limbs in state unwieldy spread;
That long behind he trails his pompous robe,
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe ?

The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace ; Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face,

And his refulgent Queen with powers combined,
Of broken troops an easy conquest find.
Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,
With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.
Thus when dispersed a routed army runs,
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons,
With like confusion different nations fly,
Of various habit, and of various dye,
The pierced battalions disunited fall,
In heaps on heaps ; one fate o’erwhelms them all.

The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, And wins (oh shameful chance !) the Queen of

Hearts. At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) On one nice trick depends the general fate, An Ace of Hearts steps forth : the King unseen Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn’d his captive Queen : He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky ; The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.

FROM THE EPISTLE OF ELOISA TO

ABELARD. In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, And ever-musing Melancholy reigns ; What means this tumult in a vestal's veins ?

Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat ?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ?
Yet, yet I love !-From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name ! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips, in holy silence seal'd;
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where, mix'd with God's, his loved idea lies :
0, write it not, my hand- the name appears
Already written-wash it out, my tears !
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays ;
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.
Relentless walls ! whose darksome round con.

tains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn ; Shrines ! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins

keep; And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep ! Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part ; Still rebel nature holds out half my heart ; Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh, name for ever sad ! for ever dear! Still breathed in sighs, still usher'd with a tear. I tremble too, where'er my own I find, Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, Led through a sad variety of wo:

Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom !
There stern religion quench'd the unwilling fame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this power away ;
And is my Abelard less kind than they ?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in prayer;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue ;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

EXTRACT FROM THE EPILOGUE TO THE

SATIRES. VIRTUE may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to virtue and to me ; Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same beloved, contented thing. Vice is undone if she forgets her birth, And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth. But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a whore : Let Greatness own her, and she's mean no more. Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess, Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless ; In golden chains the willing world she draws, And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws ; Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead. Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car, Old England's Genius, rough with many a scar, Dragg'd in the dust ! his arms hang idly round, His flag inverted trails along the ground !

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