What then remains but well our pow'r to ufe,
And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lofe!
And trust me, dear, good-humour can prevail
When airs, and flights, and screams, and fcolding, fail.
• Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;

• Charms ftrike the fight, but merit wins the foul.'
So fpoke the dame, but no applause ensu'd ;
Belinda frown'd, Thaleftris call'd her prude.
• To arms, to arms!' the fierce virago cries,
And fwift as lightning to the combat flies.
All fide in parties, and begin th' attack;
Fans clap, filks ruftie, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes and heroines fhouts confus'dly rife,
And bass and treble voices ftrike the fkies,
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 heav'nly breafts with human paffions rage,
'Gainft Pallas Mars, Latona Hermes arms,
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,"
Blue Neptune forms, the bellowing deep's refound;"
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way,
And the pale ghosts ftaft at the flash of day!

Triumphant Umbriel, on a fconce's height,

Clapp'd his glad wings, and fat to view the fight!
Propp'd on their bodkin fpears the fprites furvey
The growing combat, or affift the fray.

While thro' the prefs enrag'd Thaleftris flies,
And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A beau and witling perffh'd in the throng;
One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong.
O cruel nymph! a living death I bear!""
Cried Dapperwit, and funk befide his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caft,"
Those eyes are made fo killing-" was his last.

Thus on Meander's flow'ry margin lies
Th' expiring fwan, and as he fings he dies.

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clariffa down,
Chloe ftepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
She fmil'd to fee the doughty hero flain,
But at her smile the beau reviv'd again.

Now Jove fufpends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from fide to fide,
At length the wits mount up, the hairs fubfide.
See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies

With more than ufual lightning in her eyes;
Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try,
Who fought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold lord, with manly ftrength endu'd,
She with one finger and a thumb fubdu'd.
Juft where the breath of life his noftrils drew
A charge of fnuff the wily virgin threw ;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom juft,
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 fame, his ancient perfonage to deck,
Her great-great grandfire wore about his neck
In three feal rings; which after, melted down,
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandam's whiftle next it grew,
The bells fhe gingled, and the whistle blew ;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boaft not my fall,' he cried, infulting foe!
Thou by fome other fhalt be laid as low :
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind;

All that I dread is leaving you behind!

Rather

• Rather than fo, ah! let me ftill furvive,
• And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive.'
• Reftore the Lock!' fhe cries; and all around,
• Reftore the Lock!' the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in fo loud a strain

Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But fee how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is loft!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In ev'ry place is fought, but fought in vain :
With fuch a prize no mortal must be bless'd;
So Heav'n decrees! with Heav'n who can contest!
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,
Since all things loft on earth are treasur'd there:
There heroes wits are kept in pond'rous vafes,
And beaus in fnuff-boxes and tweezer-cafes ;
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,
And lovers hearts with ends of ribband bound;
The courtier's promises and fick man's pray'rs,
The fmiles 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 Mufe-fhe faw it upward rife,
Tho' mark'd by none but quick poetick eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,
To Proculus alone confefs'd in view)
A fudden star, it fhot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks firft rofe fa bright,
The heav'ns befpangling with difhevell❜d light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And, pleas'd, pursue it's progress thro' the skies.
This the beau-monde fhall from the Mall furvey,
And hail, with mufick, it's propitious ray;
This the blefs'd lover shall for Venus take,
And fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake;

This Partridge foon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes ;
And hence th' egregious wizard fhall foredooth
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.

Then cease, bright nymph, to mourn thy ravish'd hais
Which adds new glory to the fhining sphere.
Not all the treffes that fair head can boaft
Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you lost:
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in duft;
This Lock the Mufe fhall confecrate to fame,
And midft the ftars infcribe Belinda's name,

MONODY.

TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY WHO DIED IN CHILDEZ,

BY MR. CUTHBERT SHAW.

ET do I live! O how fhall I fuftain

YE

This vaft unutterable weight of woe;

This worse than hunger, poverty, or pain,
Or all the complicated ills below?

She, in whofe life my hopes were treasur'd all,
Is gone for ever fled-

My dearest Emma's dead;

These eyes, these tear-fwoln eyes, beheld her fall.
Ah, no-she lives on fome far happier shore;
She lives but (cruel thought!) fhe lives for me no more.

I, who the tedious abfence of a day

Remov'd, would languish for my charmer's fight, Would chide the ling'ring moments for delay,

And fondly blame the flow return of night;

How,

How, how' fhall I endure

(O mifery past a cure!)

Hours, days, and years, fucceffively to roll, sol Nor ever more behold the comfort of

my foul?

Was fhe not all my fondest wish could frame?bs foll

Did ever mind fo much of heav'n partakes liste".

Did fhe not love me with the pureft flame,ì v

And give up friends and fortune for my fake?n
Tho' mild as ev'ning fkies,

With downcaft, ftreaming eyes,

Stood the ftern frown of fupercilious brows,

Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her vows.

Come, then, fome Mufe, the faddeft of the train,
(No more your bard fhall dwell on idle lays)
Teach me each moving, melancholy ftrain,
And O difcard the pageantry of phrafe.

Ill fuit the flowers of speech with woes like mine!
Thus, haply, as I paint
I

The fource of my complaint,

My foul may own the impaffion'd line ;

A flood of tears may gufli to my relief,

And from my fwelling heart discharge this load of grief.

Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear

To wound my ears with the fad tales you tell; How good the was, how gentle, and how fair! In pity ceafe-alas! I know too well:

How, in her sweet expreffive face

Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind;

Yet heighten'd by exterior grace

Of manners most engaging, most refin’d.

No piteous object could fhe fee,

But her foft bofom fhar'd the woe,

Whilft fmiles of affability

Endear'd whatever boon fhe might bestow.

Whate'er