| |
| SHE said: the pitying audience melt in tears; | |
| But Fate and Jove had stopp’d the Baron’s ears. | |
| In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, | |
| For who can move when fair Belinda fails? | |
| Not half so fix’d the Trojan could remain, | 5 |
| While Anna begg’d and Dido raged in vain. | |
| Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan; | |
| Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began: | |
| ‘Say, why are beauties prais’d and honour’d most, | |
| The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast? | 10 |
| Why deck’d with all that land and sea afford, | |
| Why angels call’d, and angel-like ador’d? | |
| Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov’d beaux? | |
| Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? | |
| How vain are all these glories, all our pains, | 15 |
| 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 smallpox, or chased old age away; | 20 |
| Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce, | |
| Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? | |
| To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint, | |
| Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. | |
| But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, | 25 |
| 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? | 30 |
| 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; | 35 |
| 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 th’ attack; | |
| Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whale-bones crack; | 40 |
| Heroes’ and heroines’ shouts confusedly rise, | |
| And bass 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, | 45 |
| And heav’nly breasts with human passions rage; | |
| ’Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; | |
| And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; | |
| Jove’s thunder roars, Heav’n trembles all around, | |
| Blue Neptune storms, the bell’wing deeps resound: | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| The growing combat, or assist the fray. | |
| While thro’ 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 in song: | 60 |
| ‘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 killing’—was his last. | |
| Thus on Mæander’s flowery margin lies | 65 |
| Th’ 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. | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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 endued, | |
| She with one finger and a thumb subdued: | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| And the high dome reëchoes to his nose. | |
| ‘Now meet thy fate,’ incens’d Belinda cried, | |
| And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. | |
| (The same, his ancient personage to deck, | |
| Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, | 90 |
| In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, | |
| Form’d a vast buckle for his widow’s gown: | |
| Her infant grandame’s whistle next it grew, | |
| The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; | |
| Then in a bodkin graced her mother’s hairs, | 95 |
| Which long she wore and now Belinda wears.) | |
| ‘Boast not my fall,’ he cried, ‘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! | 100 |
| Rather than so, ah, let me still survive, | |
| And burn in Cupid’s flames—but burn alive.’ | |
| ‘Restore the Lock!’ she cries; and all around | |
| ‘Restore the Lock!’ the vaulted roofs rebound. | |
| Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain | 105 |
| Roar’d 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 lost! | |
| The lock, obtain’d with guilt, and kept with pain, | |
| In ev’ry place is sought, but sought in vain: | 110 |
| With such a prize no mortal must be blest. | |
| So Heav’n decrees! with Heav’n who can contest? | |
| Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, | |
| Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. | |
| There heroes’ wits are kept in pond’rous vases, | 115 |
| And beaux’ in snuffboxes and tweezer-cases. | |
| There broken vows, and deathbed alms are found, | |
| And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound, | |
| The courtier’s promises, and sick man’s prayers, | |
| The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, | 120 |
| Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, | |
| Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. | |
| But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise, | |
| Tho’ mark’d by none but quick poetic eyes | |
| (So Rome’s great founder to the heav’ns withdrew, | 125 |
| To Proculus alone confess’d in view): | |
| A sudden star, it shot thro’ 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. | 130 |
| The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, | |
| And pleas’d pursue its progress thro’ the skies. | |
| This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, | |
| And hail with music its propitious ray; | |
| This the blest lover shall for Venus take, | 135 |
| And send up vows from Rosamonda’s lake; | |
| This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, | |
| When next he looks thro’ Galileo’s eyes; | |
| And hence th’ egregious wizard shall foredoom | |
| The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. | 140 |
| Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish’d hair, | |
| Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! | |
| Not all the tresses that fair head can boast | |
| Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost. | |
| For after all the murders of your eye, | 145 |
| When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; | |
| When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, | |
| And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, | |
| This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, | |
| And ’midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name. | 150 |
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