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Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,
While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan ;
Silence ensued, and thius the nymph began :-

"Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most,
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast ?
Why deck'd with all the land and sea afford,
Why angels calld, 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,
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 housewife's cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patebi, day ogle, might become a saint,
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,
Carld or uncur’d, sinee locks will turn to grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man must 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 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, Add 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, 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, And heavenly 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 bellowing deeps resound: Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, 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 enrag'd Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and willing 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 killing"-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 stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown"; She smil'd 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 mourit 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 bigh dome re-echoes to bis nose.

"Now meet thy tate," incens'd Belinda cry'd,
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,
The bells she 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 !" 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 lost !
The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In every place is sought, but sought in vain :
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,
So beav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there. There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaux' in souff-boxes and twezer-cases. There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chairs to yoke å flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.


But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise, Though mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes : (So Rome'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 bair. 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 blest lover shall 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 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, 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.



Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century ; they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age in learning and beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After & long course of calamities they retired each to a several convent, and consecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years after this separation that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the history of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloisa. This awakening all her tenderness, occasioned those celebrated letters (out of which the fallowing is partly extracted), which give so lively a picture of the struggles of grace and nature, virtue and passion. IN these deep solitudes and awful cells,

Where heavenly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns, What means this tumult in a vestal's veins ? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat ? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?

Yet, yet I love !-From Abelard it canie, | And Eloïsa yet must kiss the name. »

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips, in holy silence seald:
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies :
O write it not, my hand—the name appears
Already written-wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloïsa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains':

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