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She said ; then raging to sir Plume repairs,
'It grieves me much (replied the peer again)
But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so; He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said :
'For ever cursed be this detested day, Which snatch'd my best, my favourite curl away. Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been, If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen! Yet am not I the first mistaken maid By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd. Oh had I rather unadmired remain'd In some lone isle, or distant northern land; Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, Where none learn ombre, none ere taste bohea ! There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.
What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam
“Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most.
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 chased old age away, Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use ? To patch, nay ogle, may become a saint; Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay; Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to gray; 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 fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.'
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued: Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. "To arms, to arms!' the fierce viragn cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies : All side in parties, and begin the attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, And base and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons 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, 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 sat to view the fight :
Propp'd on their bodkin-spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perish'd in the throng One died in metaphor, and one
song. "O cruel nymph! a living death 1 bear,' Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance sir Fopling upwards cast : “Those eyes are made so killing—' was his last. Thus on Meander's flowery margin lies The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again.
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's 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,
Now meel thy fate,' incensed Belinda cried,
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
• Boast not my fall,' he cried, “insulting foe!
Restore the lock,' she cries; and all around
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasured there : There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer cases : There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound; The courtier's promises, and sick inan's prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
But trust the muse-she saw it upward rise,
Be nice's locks first rose so bright,