She fmil'd to fee the doughty hero flain;
But; at her smile the beau reviv'd again.

Now Jove fufpends his golden scales 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 at 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 aud a thumb fubdu'd:
Just where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of fnuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom juft,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nofe.
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 whiftle next it grew,
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;

W

Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boaft not my fall (he cry'd) infulting foe!
Thou by fome other shalt 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! she 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 muft be bleft,

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 treafur'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 hearths with ends of ribbon bound;
The courtier's promifes, and fick man's pray'rs,
The fmiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of cafuistry.

But truft the Mufe-she 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 confeff'd to view)

A fudden far it shot thro' liquid air,

And drew behind a radiant train of hair.

Not Berenice's Locks first rofe fo bright,
The heav'ns befpangling with dishevel'd light.

The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd, pursue its progress thro' the skies.
This the beau-monde shall from the Mall furvey,

And hail with music its propitious ray:

This the bleft Lover shall for Venus take,

And fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake.

This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,

When next he looks thro' Galilæo's eyes;

And hence th❜egregious wizard shall foredoom

The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.

Then ceafe, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,
Which adds new glory to the shining fphere!
Not all the treffes, that fair head can boaît,
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 shall fet, as fet they must,
And all thofe treffes shall be laid in duft,
This Lock the Mufe shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midft the ftars infcribe Belinda's nam

OF CONTENT S..

PAGE
AGE THE FIRST. THE deserted village.

GOLDSMITH.

PAGE 18. An elegy written in a country churchyard.

GRAY.

PAGE 24 A monody on the death of his lady.

LYTTLETON

PAGE 36. A pastoral ballad, in four parts.