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HE faid: the pitying audience melt in tears:
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
For who can move when fair Belinda fails ?
Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,
While Anna begg'd, and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clarifa graceful wav'd her fan;
Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began.
Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most,
The wise man's paffion, and the vain man's toaft?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd ?
[beaus, Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd Why bows and fide-box from its inmoft rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:
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 chas'd old age away;
Who would not scorn what huswife's cares produce.
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint,
Nor could it fure be such a fin to paint.
But fince, alas! frail beauty muft decay,
Curi'd or uncurld, since locks will turn to grey.
Since painted, or not painted, all fhall fade,
And she who scorns a man, muft die-a maid;
What then remains, but well our pow'r to use,
And keep good humour still whate'er we lose ?
And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail,
When airs, and fights, and screams, and scolding fal.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may-roll;
Charms ftrike the fight, but merit wins the foul.
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensu'd;
Belinda frown'd, Thaleftris call'd her prude.
To arms, to arms! the fierce virago cries,
And swift as lightning to the combate flies,
All fide in parties, and begin th' attack;
Fans clap, filks ruffle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heros and heroins thouts confus'dly rise,
And base, and treble voices ftrike 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 henv'nly breasts with human passions rage;
Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:
Fove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around;
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound;
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives wa
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapp'd his glad wings, and fate to view the fight, Propp'd on their bodkin fpears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or aflift the fray. While thro' the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, And scatters deaths around from both her eyes; A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong.
O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,
Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk beside his chair:
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caft,
* Those eyes are made so killing—-was his last;
Thus on Meander's flow'ry margin lies,
Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarifa down,
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
She smil'd to see the doughty hero flain,
But, at her smile, the beau reviv'd again.
† Now Fove suspends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the mens wits against the lady's hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subfide.
See fierce Belinda on the baron flies,
With more than usual lightning in her eyes:
Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try;
Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold Lord with manly strength endu’d,
She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd:
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of fpuff the wily virgin threw;
* A Song in the Opera of Camilla.
VidHomer, Il. 8. do Virg. An. 120
The Gnomes dire& to ev'ry atome just,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.
Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry’d,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her fide.
(* The same, his ancient personage to deck,
Her great great grandfire wore about his neck
In three feal-rings; which after, melted down,',
Form'd vaft buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells the gingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boast not my fall (he cry'd) insulting foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind :
All that I dread is leaving you behind !
Rather than so, ah let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames, but burn alive, ,
Restore the lock! The cries, and all around
Restore the lock! the vaulted roofs rebound.
* In imitation of the progress of Agamemnon's Sceptre in Homes, II, 2.