Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador❜d?

Why round our Coaches crowd the white glov'd Beaus,
Why bows the fide-box from its inmost rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good fenfe preferve 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 fmall-pox, or chas'd old age away;
Who would not fcorn what hufwife's cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of ufe?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,
Nor could it fure be fuch a fin to paint.
But fince, alas! frail beauty must decay,
Curl'd or uncurl'd, fince Locks will turn to grey,
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And the who fcorns a man, must die a maid ;
What then remains, but well our pow'r to use,
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

Qq

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike 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 combate flies. All fide in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, filks rufsle, and tough whalebones crack; Heroes and Heroins 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 breasts 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!

*Homer, Il. 20.

Triumphant

Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce'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 Thaleftris flies, And scatters deaths around from both her eyes, A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng, One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong. O cruel nymph! a living death I bear, Cry'd Dapper wit, and funk befide his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, *Those eyes are made fo killing--was his laft: Thus on Meander'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; She fmil'd to fee the doughty Hero flain, But, at her fmile, the Beau reviv'd again.

+ Now Jove fufpends his golden fcales in air, Weighs the Men's wits against the Lady's hair ;

* A Song in the Opera of Camilla.

+ Vid. Homer II. 8. & Virg. Æn. 12.

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 :
Just where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw ;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atome just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
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 side.

(*
*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:

* In imitation of the progress of Agamemnon's feeptre in Homer, II. 2.

Her

Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells the gingled, and the whistle blew ;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long fhe 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 crys; 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 bleft,

So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?