Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd ?
Why round our coaches croud the white-glov'd
Beaux,
Why bows the fide-box from its inmoft rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 15
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:
That men may fay, 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 pro-
duce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,
Nor could it fure be fuch a fin to paint.
Why on thofe fhores are we with joy fur-vey'd;
Admir'd as beroes, and as Gods obey'd;
Unless great as fuperior merit prove,
Ant vindicate the bounteous pow'rs above?
'Tis ours, the dignity they give, to grace;
The firft in valour, as the first in place :
That when with wond'ring eyes our martial bands
Behold our deeds tranfcending our commands,
Such, they may cry, deferve the fou'reign ftate,
Whom those that envy, dare not imitate ;
Could all our care elude the gloomy grave,
Which claims no less the fearful than the brave,
For luft of fame I should not vainly dare
In fighting fields, nor urge thy foul to war.
But fince, alas! ignoble age must come,
Difeafe, and death's inexorable doom;
The life which others pay, let us beflow,
And give to fame what we to nature owe;
Brave tho' we fall, and honour'd if we livɛ,
Or let us glory gain, or glory give.
M
But fince, alas! frail beauty muft decay,
Curl'd or uncurl'd, fince Locks will turn to grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all fhall fade,
And the who fcorns 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 flights, and screams, and fcolding
fail.
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; 35
Belinda frown'd, Thaleftris call'd her Prude.
To arms, to arms! the fierce Virago cries,
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
All fide in parties, and begin th' attack;
Fans clap, filks rufsle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes and Heroines fhouts confus'dly rife,
And bafe, 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 heav'nly breafts with human paffions rage;
VER. 45. So when bold Homer] Homer, II. xx. P. VARIATIONS.
VER. 37. To arms, to arms!] From hence the first Edition goes on to the Conclufion, except a very few short infertions added, to keep the Machinery in view to the end of the poem.
VER. 35. So spoke the Dame,] It is a verse frequently repeated in Homer after any speech,
So Spoke and all the Heroes applauded.
'Gainft Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,
Blue Neptune ftorms, the bellowing deeps refound:
Earth fhakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives.
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a fconce's height
Clap'd his glad wings, and fate to view the fight:
Prop'd on their bodkin fpears, the Sprites furvey
The growing combat, or affift the fray.
While thro' the prefs enrag'd Thalestris flies,
And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A Beau and Witling perifh'd in the throng,
One dy'd in metaphor, and one in song.
"Oh cruel nymph! a living death I bear,
Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk befide his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
"Those eyes are made fo killing-was his last.
Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, 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;
VER. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] Thefe four lines added, for the reafon before mentioned. P.
VER. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] Minerva in like manner, during the Battle of Ulyffes with the Suitors in Odyff, perches on a beam of the roof to behold it. P. VER. 64. Thofe eyes are made fo killing] The words of a Song in the Opera of Camilla
VER. 65. Thus on Meander's flow'ry margin lies]
Sic ubi fata vocant, udis a'jestus in herbis,
Ad vada Mæondri concinit albus olor. Ov. Ep. P.
She fmil'd to fee the doughty heroe flain,
But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again.
Now Jove fufpends his golden fcales in air,
Weighs the Mens 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 fʊe to die.
But this bold Lord with manly ftrength endu❜d,
She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd:
Juft where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with ftarting tears each eye o'erflows, 85'
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 grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells, fhe jingled, and the whistle blew;
VER. 71. Now Jove, etc.] Vid. Homer II. viii. and Virg. Æn. xii. P.
VER. 83. The Gnomes direct,] These two lines added for the above reason. P.
VER. 89. The fame, his ancient perfonage to deck.] In imitation of the progrefs of Agamemnon's fceptre in Homer, II. ii.
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) 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 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 crofs'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 blest, 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 Hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vafes, And Beau's in fnuff-boxes and tweezer-cafes. 116 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, 120 Cages for gnats, and chains to yoak a flea, Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of cafuistry.
But truft the Mufe-fhe faw it upward rise, Tho' mark'd by none, but quick, poetic eyes:
VER. 114. Since all things loft] Vid. Ariofto. Canto
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