What time would spare, from steel receives its date,

And monuments, like men, submit to fate !

Steel could the labour of the gods destroy,

And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy; What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel

The conquering force of unresisted steel?"

Canto IV.

But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed,
And secret passions laboured in her breast.
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss,
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,
Not tyrants fierce, that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinned awry,
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,
As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair.

Then see the nymph in beauteous grief appears,
Her eyes half-languishing, half-drowned in tears.
"For ever mourned be this detested day,
Which snatched my best, my favourite curl away!
Happy! ah, ten times happy! had I been,

If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! .
'Twas this, the morning omens seemed to tell,
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell ;
The tottering china shook without a wind;
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
A Sylph, too, warned me of the threats of Fate,
In mystic visions, now believed too late!
Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs than these.

Canto V.

She said, the pitying audience melt in tears,
But fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears.
Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan;
Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:

"Say, why are beauties praised and, honoured most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? Why decked with all that land and sea afford, Why angels called, and angel-like adored?

Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux ?

Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains;
Oh! if to dance all night and dress all day,
Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares pro-
duce,

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? . .
But since, alas! pale beauty must decay;
Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to grey.
What then remains, but well our power 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 scolding

fail;

Beauties in vain their little eyes may

roll ;

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul."
So spake the dame, but no applause ensued ;
Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude.
All side in parties, and begin the attack,

Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack.

"Restore the Lock!" she cries, and all around, "Restore the Lock !" the vaulted roofs rebound.

But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
The Lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain,
In every place is sought, but sought in vain..

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on Earth are treasured there. There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaux' in snuff-boxes, and tweezer cases; There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound;

But trust the Muse. She saw it upward rise,
Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes;
A sudden star it shot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,

And pleased pursue its progress through the skies. . . .
This the blest lover shall for Venus take,
And send up vows from Rosamunda's lake.

This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks through Gallileo's eyes;

Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair,

Which adds new glory to the shining sphere !

Not all the tresses that fair head can boast

Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.

When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.

From THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN.

Oh! blest with temper whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day. . .
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules;
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
Yet has her humour most when she obeys,

And mistress of herself though china fall.

From THE USE OF RICHES.

Who shall decide when doctors disagree,
And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?

Satan now is wiser than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Part II.

Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And, though no science, fairly worth the seven.

ELOISA TO ABELARD.

Last line.

He best can paint them who can feel them most.

From THE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

Friend to my life, which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song!

As yet a child, and all unknown to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
And St. John's self, great Dryden's friend before,
With open arms received one poet more.

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard is his mind;
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?

The Attack on Addison.

Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires;
Blest with each talent, and each art to please,
And, born to write, converse, and live with ease.
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise;
Hurt with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ;
Alike reserved to blame or to commend ;
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause.
While wits and templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?