For ever curs'd be this detefted day,

Which fnatch'd my beft, my fav'rite Curl away!
Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,

If Hampton-Court these eyes had never feen!
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid

By love of Courts to num'rous ills betray'd.
Oh had I rather unadmir'd remain'd

In fome lone isle, or distant northern land;
Where the gilt Chariot never marks the way,
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er tafte Bohea!
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,
Like rofes, that in deferts bloom and die.

What mov'd my mind with youthful Lords to roam ?
O had I stay'd, and faid my pray'rs at home!
"Twas this the morning omens feem'd to tell:
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
The tott'ring China fhook without a wind;
Nay, Poll fat mute, and Shock was most unkind!,
A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of Fate,
In myftic vifions, now believ'd too late!
See the poor remnants of these flighted hairs!
My hands fhall rend what e'en thy rapine fpares
Thefe, in two fable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;
The fifter-lock now fits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow's fate forefees its own;
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal fheers demands,
And tempts, once more, thy facrilegious hands,
O hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Hairs lefs in fight, or any hairs but these!

IBID. P. 132.

THE BARON'S DEFEAT.

SO spoke 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 às lightning to the combat flies. All fide in parties, and begin th'attack; Fans clap, filks ruftle, and tough whale-bones crack; Heroes and heroines fhouts confus'dly rife, And bafs 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 ftorms, the bellowing deeps refound: Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives

way,

And the pale ghosts start 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 Sprites 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 perifh'd in the throng, One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong.

"O cruel

"O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear," Cry'd Dapper wit, and funk befide his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caft, "Those eyes are made fo killing"-was his last. Thus on Maander's flow'ry margin lies Th'expiring Swan, and as he fings he dies.

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe ftepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She fmil'd to fee the doughty hero slain, But at her fmile 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 then 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 firength endu'd,

She with one finger and a thumb fubdu'd:

Juft where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of Snuf the wily virgin threw ;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom juft,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with ftarting 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

(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 ;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
IBID. P. 135.

THE LOCK's APOTHEOSIS. 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 Beaux' 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 Smiles of Harlots, and the Tears of Heirs, Cages for Gnats, and Chains to yoke a Flea, Dry'd Butterflies, and Tomes of Cafuiftry.

But truft the Mufe-fhe faw it upward rife,
Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,
To Proculus alone confefs'd in view :)

A fudden Star it shot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of Hair.
Not Berenice's Locks first rofe fo bright,
The heav'ns bespangling with difhevel❜d light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd purfue its progrefs thro' the skies.

This

This the Beau-monde shall from the Mall furvey,
And hail with mufic its propitious ray.

This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take,
And fend up vows from Rosamonda's lake.
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.

Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra-
vish'd hair,

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 loft.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they must,
And all those treffes fhall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Mufe fhall confecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name.

IBID.

p. 138.

FOREIGN

INTERMENT.

WHAT can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domeftic tear,
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,

By