As on the nofegay in her breast reclin'd,
He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind,
Sudden he view'd, in fpite of all her art,
An earthly Lover lurking at her heart.
Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd,
Refign'd to fate, and with a figh retir'd.
The Peer now fpreads the glitt'ring forfex wide, T'inclose the Lock; now joins it to divide.
Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd,
A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd
Fate urg'd the sheers, and cut the Sylph in twain (But airy fubftance foon unites again)
The meeting points the facred hair diffever
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!
Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend th'affrighted skies.
Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast
When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their laft;
Or when rich China veffels fall'n from high,
In glitt'ring duft and painted fragments lie!
Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,
(The victor cry'd) the glorious prize is mine!
While fish in ftreams, or birds delight in air,
Or in a coach and fix the British fair,
As long as Atalantis shall be read,
Or the fmall pillow grace a Lady's bed,
While vifits shall be paid on folemn days;
When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze,
While nymphs take treats, or affignations give,
So long my honour, name, and praife shall live!
What time would fpare, from steel receives its date,
And monuments, like men, fubmit to fate!
Steel could the labour of the Gods deftroy,
And ftrike to duft th' imperial towr's of Troy;
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
What wonder then, fair Nymph! thy hairs should feel The conqu'ring force of unrefifted fteel?
BUT anxious cares the penfive nymph opprefs'd,
And fecret paffions labour'd in her breast.
Not youthful kings in battle feiz'd alive,
Not fcornful virgins who their charms furvive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their blifs,
Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kifs,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinn'd awry,
E'er felt fuch rage, refentment, and despair,
As thou fad Virgin! for thy ravish'd Hair.
For, that fad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew, And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
As ever fully'd the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper fcene,
Repair'd, to fearch the gloomy cave of Spleen.
Swift on his footy pinions flits the Gnome,
And in a vapour reach'd the difmal dome.
No cheering breeze this fullen region knows;
The dreaded Eaft is all the wind that blows.
Here, in a grotto, shelter'd close from air,
And screen'd in shades from day's detefted glare,
She fighs for ever on her pensive bed,
Pain at her fide, and Megrim at her head.
Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place,
But diff'ring far in figure and in face.
Here ftood ill-nature, like an ancient maid,
Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;
With ftore of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons,
Her hand is fill'd, her bofom with lampoons.
There affectation, with a fickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen;
Practis'd to lifp, and hang the head aside,
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;
On the rich quilt finks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for fickness, and for show.
The fair ones feel fuch maladies as thefe,
When each new night-drefs gives a new disease.
A conftant vapour o'er the palace flies;
Strange phantoms rifing as the mifts arife;
Dreadful as hermits dreams in haunted shades;
Or bright, as vifions of expiring maids.
Now glaring fiends, and fnakes on rolling fpires,
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elyfian fcenes,
And crystal domes, and angels in machines.
Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry fide are feen,
Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen.
Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out,
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks ;
Here fighs a jar, and there a goose-pye talks;
Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works,
And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.
Safe past the Gnome thro' this fantastic band,
A branch of healing fpleenwort in his hand:
Then thus addreff'd the Pow'r-Hail wayward Queen!
Who rule the fex from fifty to fifteen:
Parent of vapours, and of female wit,
Who give th' hyfteric, or poetic fit;
On various tempers act, in various ways,
Make some take phyfic, others fcribble plays;
Who caufe the proud their vifits to delay,
And fend the godly in a pet to pray.
A Nymph there is that all thy pow'r difdains,
And thoufands more in equal mirth maintains.
But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could fpoil a grace,.
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
Like citron-waters, matrons cheeks inflame,
Or change complexions at a losing game;
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
Or caus'd fufpicion when no foul was rude,
Or discompot'd the head-drefs of a prude,
Or e'er to coftive lap-dog gave disease,
Which not the tears of brighteft eyes could eafe,
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin;
That fingle act gives half the world the fpleen.
The Goddefs with a difcontented air,
Seems to reject him, tho' she grants his pray'r.
A wond'rous bag with both her hands she binds,
Like that where once Ulyffes held the winds;
There she collects the force of female lungs,
Sighs, fobs, and paffions, and the war of tongues.
A phial next she fills with fainting fears,
Soft forrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears,
The Gnome rejoicing, bears her gifts away,
Spreads his black wings, and flowly mounts to day.
Sunk in Thaleftris' arms the Nymph he found,
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound.
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