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Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan;
"Say,why are beanties prais’d and honour'd most;
So spoke the dame, but no applause 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 side in parties, and begin the attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus’dly rise,
So when bold Homer makes the gods engage,
Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce's height, Clap'd his glad wings, and sat 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 died in metaphor, and one in song: O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,' Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killings
- was his last. Thus on Mæander's flowery margin lies The' 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 smild to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau reviv'd 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 op, the hairs sabside.
See fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usnal lightning in her eyes: Nor fear'd the chief the unequal fight to try, Who sovght no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 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 cried,
• Boast not my fall (he cried) insulting foe!
• Restore the lock ! she cries; and all around • Restore the lock ! the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roard for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lest !
The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,
But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise, Though mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes: (So Rone's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell’d light. The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, And pleas'd pursue its progress through the skies.
This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with music its propitious ray ; This the bless'd lover sliall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake; This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galilæo's eyes; And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ra
vish'd hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere !
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,