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 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 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 in 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, With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Nor fear'd the chief the 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: 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,' incensed 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, 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, Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain But trust the muse-she saw it upward rise, The heavens bespangling with dishevell'd light. The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, Then cease,bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. WHAT beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored? Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart? To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your bless'd abodes, Thence to their images on earth it flows, And separate from their kindred dregs below: But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: So perish all whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? |