Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry 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 here, like Homer's Tripod, walks;
Here fighs a jar, and there a goofe-pye talks ;
Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works,
And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.
Safe pafs'd the Gnome thro' this fantastic band,
A branch of healing Spleen-wort in his hand.
Then thus addrefs'd the Pow'r-HailwaywardQueen!
Who rule the fex to fifty from fifteen :
Parent of vapours, and of female wit,
Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit,
On various tempere at 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 pow'r difdains,
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 ;
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, tho' fhe grants his pray❜r.
A wond'rous Bag with both her hands fhe 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 fhe 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 iffu'd at the vent.
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
And fierce Thaleftris fans the rifing fire.
O wretched maid! she spread her hands and cry'd,
(While Hampton's echoes, Wretched maid! reply'd)
Was it for this you took such constant care
The bodkin, comb, and effence to prepare ?
For this your locks in paper durance bound,
For this with tort'ring irons writh'd around?
For this with fillets ftrain'd your tender head,
And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
Gods! fhall the ravisher display your hair,
While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!
Honour forbid! at whose unrival'd shrine,
Eafe, pleasure, virtue, all our fex refign...
Methinks already I your tears furvey,
Already hear the horrid things they say,
Already fee you a degraded toast,
And all your honour in a whisper loft!
How fhall I, then, your helpless fame defend?
"Twill, then, be infamy to feem your friend!
And shall this prize, th' ineftimable prize,
Expos'd thro' crystal to the gazing eyes,
And, heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze!
Sooner fhall grafs in Hyde-park Circus grow,
And wits take lodgings in the found of Bow;
Sooner let earth, air, fea, to Chaos fall,
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perifh all!
She faid! then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: Sir Plume (of amber fnuff-box juftly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the fnuff-box open'd, then the case, And thus broke out-" My Lord, why, what the "devil?
"Z-ds! damn the Lock! 'fore Gad, you must be "civil!
"Plague on't! 'tis past a jest-nay, pr'ythee, pox, "Give her the hair"-he spoke, and rapp'd his box..
It grieves me much (reply'd the Peer again)
Who speaks fo well fhould ever speak in vain.
But by this Lock, this facred Lock I swear,
(Which never more fhall join its parted hair;
Which never more its honours fhall renew,
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew)
That while my noftrils draw the vital air,
This hand, which won it, fhall for ever wear.
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread
The long-contended honours of her head.
But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not fo; He breaks the Vial, whence the forrows flow. Then fee! the Nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; On her heav'd bofom hung her drooping head, Which, with a figh, she rais'd; and thus she said: For ever curs'd be this detefted day,
Which fnatch'd my beft, my fav'rite curl away!
Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,
If Hampton-Court these eyes had never feen!
Yet am not I the first miftaken maid
By love of courts to num'rous ills betray'd.
Oh had I rather unadmir'd remain'd
In fome lone ifle, or distant northern land;
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er tafte Bohea!
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,
Like roses, that in deferts blocm and die.
What mov'd' my mind with youthful Lords to roam?
O had I ftay'd, and faid my pray'rs at home!
'Twas this the morning Omens seem'd to tell;
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
The tott'ring China shook without a wind;
Nay, Poll fat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
A Sylph
A Sylph, too, warn'd me of the threats of Fate,
In myftic vifions, now believ'd too late!
See the poor remnants of these flighted hairs!
My hands fhall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares :
These in two fable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the fnowy neck;
The fifter-lock now fits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow's fate forefees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal fheers demands,
And tempts, once more, thy facrilegious hands.
Oh had thou, cruel! been content to feize
Hairs lefs in fight, or any hairs but these!
She faid: the pitying audience melt in tears.
But Fate and Jove had flopp'd the Baron's ears.
In vain Thaleftris with reproach affails!
For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
Not half fo fix'd the Trojan could remain,
While Anna begg'd, and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clariffa graceful wav'd her fan;
Silence enfu'd, and thus the Nymph began.
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 fea afford, Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd; Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov❜d
Why bows the fide-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all thefe glories, all our pains, Unless good fenfe preserve what beauty gains: That men may fay, when we the front-box grace, Behold the first in virtue, as in face!
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