<hi rendition="#times">Poems</hi> Robert Whalen Author Fall 2023

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William Shakespeare “Sonnet 73” That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. “Sonnet 15” When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment; That this huge stage presenteth naught but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheerèd and checked even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out in memory: Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, To change your day of youth to sullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Ben Jonson “On Court-Worm” All men are worms; but this no man. In silk ’Twas brought to court first wrapt, and white as milk; Where, afterwards, it grew a butterfly, Which was a caterpillar: so ‘twill die. “On Something that Walks Somewhere” At court I met it, in clothes brave enough, To be a courtier; and looks grave enough, To seem a statesman: as I near it came, It made me a great face; I ask’d the name. “A Lord,” it cried, “buried in flesh, and blood, And such from whom let no man hope least good, For I will do none; and as little ill, For I will dare none.” Good Lord, walk dead still. “To Penshurst”    Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,    Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row    Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;    Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told,  Or stair, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile,    And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while.    Thou joy’st in better marks, of soil, of air,    Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.    Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport;   Thy mount, to which the dryads do resort,    Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,    Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade;    That taller tree, which of a nut was set    At his great birth where all the Muses met.   There in the writhèd bark are cut the names    Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames;    And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke    The lighter fauns to reach thy Lady’s Oak.    Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there,   That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer    When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends.    The lower land, that to the river bends,    Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed;    The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed.   Each bank doth yield thee conies; and the tops,    Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sidney’s copse,    To crown thy open table, doth provide    The purpled pheasant with the speckled side;    The painted partridge lies in every field,   And for thy mess is willing to be killed.    And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish,    Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,    Fat aged carps that run into thy net,    And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,   As loath the second draught or cast to stay,    Officiously at first themselves betray;    Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land    Before the fisher, or into his hand.    Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,   Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.    The early cherry, with the later plum,    Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come;    The blushing apricot and woolly peach    Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach.   And though thy walls be of the country stone,    They’re reared with no man’s ruin, no man’s groan;    There’s none that dwell about them wish them down;    But all come in, the farmer and the clown,    And no one empty-handed, to salute   Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.    Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,    Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make    The better cheeses bring them, or else send    By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend   This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear    An emblem of themselves in plum or pear.    But what can this (more than express their love)    Add to thy free provisions, far above    The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow   With all that hospitality doth know;    Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat,    Without his fear, and of thy lord’s own meat;    Where the same beer and bread, and selfsame wine,    This is his lordship’s shall be also mine,   And I not fain to sit (as some this day    At great men’s tables), and yet dine away.    Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,    A waiter doth my gluttony envy,    But gives me what I call, and lets me eat;   He knows below he shall find plenty of meat.    The tables hoard not up for the next day;    Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray    For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there,    As if thou then wert mine, or I reigned here:   There’s nothing I can wish, for which I stay.    That found King James when, hunting late this way    With his brave son, the prince, they saw thy fires    Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires    Of thy Penates had been set on flame   To entertain them; or the country came    With all their zeal to warm their welcome here.    What (great I will not say, but) sudden cheer    Didst thou then make ’em! and what praise was heaped    On thy good lady then, who therein reaped   The just reward of her high housewifery;    To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,    When she was far; and not a room but dressed    As if it had expected such a guest!    These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.   Thy lady’s noble, fruitful, chaste withal.    His children thy great lord may call his own,    A fortune in this age but rarely known.    They are, and have been, taught religion; thence    Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence.   Each morn and even they are taught to pray,    With the whole household, and may, every day,    Read in their virtuous parents’ noble parts    The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.    Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee  With other edifices, when they see    Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,    May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.
Aemilia Lanyer “Description of Cooke-ham”    Farewell (sweet Cooke-ham) where I first obtained    Grace from that grace where perfect grace remained;    And where the muses gave their full consent,    I should have power the virtuous to content;   Where princely palace willed me to indite,    The sacred story of the soul’s delight.    Farewell (sweet place) where virtue then did rest,    And all delights did harbor in her breast;    Never shall my sad eyes again behold   Those pleasures which my thoughts did then unfold.    Yet you (great Lady) Mistress of that place,    From whose desires did spring this work of grace;    Vouchsafe to think upon those pleasures past,    As fleeting worldly joys that could not last,   Or, as dim shadows of celestial pleasures,    Which are desired above all earthly treasures.    Oh how (methought) against you thither came,    Each part did seem some new delight to frame!    The house received all ornaments to grace it,   And would endure no foulness to deface it.    And walks put on their summer liveries,    And all things else did hold like similes.    The trees with leaves, with fruits, with flowers clad,    Embraced each other, seeming to be glad,   Turning themselves to beauteous Canopies,    To shade the bright sun from your brighter eyes;    The crystal streams with silver spangles graced,    While by the glorious sun they were embraced;    The little birds in chirping notes did sing,   To entertain both you and that sweet spring.    And Philomela with her sundry lays,    Both you and that delightful place did praise.    Oh how me thought each plant, each flower, each tree    Set forth their beauties then to welcome thee!   The very hills right humbly did descend,    When you to tread on them did intend.    And as you set your feet, they still did rise,    Glad that they could receive so rich a prize.    The gentle winds did take delight to be   Among those woods that were so graced by thee,    And in sad murmur uttered pleasing sound,    That pleasure in that place might more abound.    The swelling banks delivered all their pride    When such a Phoenix once they had espied.   Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree,    Thought themselves honored in supporting thee;    The pretty birds would oft come to attend thee,    Yet fly away for fear they should offend thee;    The little creatures in the burrough by   Would come abroad to sport them in your eye,    Yet fearful of the bow in your fair hand.    Would run away when you did make a stand.    Now let me come unto that stately tree,    Wherein such goodly prospects you did see;   That oak that did in height his fellows pass,    As much as lofty trees, low growing grass,    Much like a comely cedar straight and tall,    Whose beauteous stature far exceeded all.    How often did you visit this fair tree,   Which seeming joyful in receiving thee,    Would like a palm tree spread his arms abroad,    Desirous that you there should make abode;    Whose fair green leaves much like a comely veil,    Defended Phoebus when he would assail;   Whose pleasing boughs did yield a cool fresh air,    Joying his happiness when you were there.    Where being seated, you might plainly see    Hills, vales, and woods, as if on bended knee    They had appeared, your honor to salute,   Or to prefer some strange unlooked-for suit;    All interlaced with brooks and crystal springs,    A prospect fit to please the eyes of kings.    And thirteen shires appeared all in your sight,    Europe could not afford much more delight.   What was there then but gave you all content,    While you the time in meditation spent    Of their Creator’s power, which there you saw,    In all his creatures held a perfect law;    And in their beauties did you plain descry   His beauty, wisdom, grace, love, majesty.    In these sweet woods how often did you walk,    With Christ and his Apostles there to talk;    Placing his holy Writ in some fair tree    To meditate what you therein did see.   With Moses you did mount his holy hill    To know his pleasure, and perform his will.    With lowly David you did often sing    His holy hymns to Heaven’s eternal King.    And in sweet music did your soul delight   To sound his praises, morning, noon, and night.    With blessed Joseph you did often feed    Your pined brethren, when they stood in need.    And that sweet Lady sprung from Clifford’s race,    Of noble Bedford’s blood, fair stem of grace,   To honorable Dorset now espoused,    In whose fair breast true virtue then was housed,    Oh what delight did my weak spirits find    In those pure parts of her well framèd mind.    And yet it grieves me that I cannot be   Near unto her, whose virtues did agree    With those fair ornaments of outward beauty,    Which did enforce from all both love and duty.    Unconstant Fortune, thou art most to blame,    Who casts us down into so low a frame   Where our great friends we cannot daily see,    So great a difference is there in degree.    Many are placed in those orbs of state,    Partners in honor, so ordained by Fate,    Nearer in show, yet farther off in love,   In which, the lowest always are above.    But whither am I carried in conceit,    My wit too weak to conster of the great.    Why not? although we are but born of earth,    We may behold the heavens, despising death;   And loving heaven that is so far above,    May in the end vouchsafe us entire love.    Therefore sweet memory do thou retain    Those pleasures past, which will not turn again:    Remember beauteous Dorset’s former sports,   So far from being touched by ill reports,    Wherein myself did always bear a part,    While reverend love presented my true heart.    Those recreations let me bear in mind,    Which her sweet youth and noble thoughts did find,   Whereof deprived, I evermore must grieve,    Hating blind Fortune, careless to relieve,    And you sweet Cooke-ham, whom these ladies leave,    I now must tell the grief you did conceive    At their departure, when they went away,   How everything retained a sad dismay.    Nay long before, when once an inkling came,    Methought each thing did unto sorrow frame:    The trees that were so glorious in our view,    Forsook both flowers and fruit, when once they knew   Of your depart, their very leaves did wither,    Changing their colors as they grew together.    But when they saw this had no power to stay you,    They often wept, though, speechless, could not pray you,    Letting their tears in your fair bosoms fall,   As if they said, Why will ye leave us all?    This being vain, they cast their leaves away    Hoping that pity would have made you stay:    Their frozen tops, like age’s hoary hairs,    Shows their disasters, languishing in fears.   A swarthy riveled rind all over spread,    Their dying bodies half alive, half dead.    But your occasions called you so away    That nothing there had power to make you stay.    Yet did I see a noble grateful mind   Requiting each according to their kind,    Forgetting not to turn and take your leave    Of these sad creatures, powerless to receive    Your favor, when with grief you did depart,    Placing their former pleasures in your heart,   Giving great charge to noble memory    There to preserve their love continually.    But specially the love of that fair tree,    That first and last you did vouchsafe to see,    In which it pleased you oft to take the air   With noble Dorset, then a virgin fair,    Where many a learned book was read and scanned,    To this fair tree, taking me by the hand,    You did repeat the pleasures which had passed,    Seeming to grieve they could no longer last.   And with a chaste, yet loving kiss took leave,    Of which sweet kiss I did it soon bereave,    Scorning a senseless creature should possess    So rare a favor, so great happiness.    No other kiss it could receive from me,   For fear to give back what it took of thee,    So I ungrateful creature did deceive it    Of that which you in love vouchsafed to leave it.    And though it oft had given me much content,    Yet this great wrong I never could repent;   But of the happiest made it most forlorn,    To show that nothing’s free from Fortune’s scorne,    While all the rest with this most beauteous tree    Made their sad consort sorrow’s harmony.    The flowers that on the banks and walks did grow,   Crept in the ground, the grass did weep for woe.    The winds and waters seemed to chide together    Because you went away they knew not whither;    And those sweet brooks that ran so fair and clear,    With grief and trouble wrinkled did appear.   Those pretty birds that wonted were to sing,    Now neither sing, nor chirp, nor use their wing,    But with their tender feet on some bare spray,    Warble forth sorrow, and their own dismay.    Fair Philomela leaves her mournful ditty,   Drowned in deep sleep, yet can procure no pity.    Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree    Looks bare and desolate now for want of thee,    Turning green tresses into frosty gray,    While in cold grief they wither all away.   The sun grew weak, his beams no comfort gave,    While all green things did make the earth their grave.    Each brier, each bramble, when you went away    Caught fast your clothes, thinking to make you stay;    Delightful Echo wonted to reply   To our last words, did now for sorrow die;    The house cast off each garment that might grace it,    Putting on dust and cobwebs to deface it.    All desolation then there did appear,    When you were going whom they held so dear.   This last farewell to Cooke-ham here I give,    When I am dead thy name in this may live,    Wherein I have performed her noble hest    Whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast,    And ever shall, so long as life remains,   Tying my life to her by those rich chains.
Mary Wroth “Sonnet 1” When night’s blacke Mantle could most darknesse prove, And sleepe, death’s image, did my senses hire From knowledge of myselfe, than thoughts did move Swifter then those most swiftnesse neede require. In sleepe, a chariot drawne by winged desire I saw, where sate bright Venus, Queene of Love, And at her feete, her son, still adding fire To burning hearts, which she did hold above. But one heart flaming more than all the rest, The Goddesse held, and put it to my breast. “Dear Sonne now shut,” said she, “thus must we winne.” He her obeyed, and martyred my poore heart. I, waking, hoped as dreames it would depart: Yet since, O me, a lover have I beene. “Sonnet 40” False hope, which feeds but to destroy, and spill What it first breeds, unnatural to the birth Of thine own womb; conceiving but to kill, And plenty gives to make the greater dearth, So tyrants do who falsely ruling earth Outwardly grace them, and with profits fill; Advance those who appointed are to death To make their greater fall to please their will. Thus shadow they their wicked vile intent, Coloring evil with a show of good, While in fair shows their malice so is spent; Hope kills the heart, and tyrants shed the blood. For hope deluding brings us to the pride Of our desires the farther down to slide. “Sonnet 68” My paine, still smother’d in my grieved brest, Seekes for some ease, yet cannot passage finde; To be discharg’d of this unwellcome guest, When most I strive, more fast his burthens binde. Like to a Ship on Goodwins cast by winde, The more she strives, more deepe in Sand is prest, Till she be lost: so am I in this kind Sunck, and devour’d, and swallow’ed by unrest. Lost, shipwrackt, spoyl’d, debar’d of smallest hope, Nothing of pleasure left, save thoughts have scope, Which wander may; goe then my thoughts and cry: Hope’s perish'd, Love tempest-beaten, Joy lost, Killing Despaire hath all these blessings crost; Yet Faith still cries, “Love will not falsifie.”
John Donne “The Flea”    MARK but this flea, and mark in this,    How little that which thou deniest me is;    It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee,    And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.   Thou know’st that this cannot be said    A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead    Yet this enjoys before it woo,    And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two;    And this, alas! is more than we would do.   O stay, three lives in one flea spare,    Where we almost, yea, more than married are.    This flea is you and I, and this    Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.    Though parents grudge, and you, we’re met,   And cloister’d in these living walls of jet.    Though use make you apt to kill me,    Let not to that self-murder added be,    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.    Cruel and sudden, hast thou since   Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?    Wherein could this flea guilty be,    Except in that drop which it suck’d from thee?    Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou    Find’st not thyself nor me the weaker now.   ’Tis true ; then learn how false fears be;    Just so much honour, when thou yield’st to me,    Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee. “Holy Sonnet XIV”    Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you    As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;    That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend    Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.   I, like an usurp’d town, to another due,    Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.    Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,    But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.    Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,   But am betroth’d unto your enemy;    Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,    Take me to you, imprison me, for I,    Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,    Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Alexander Pope “The Rape of the Lock”     What dire offence from am’rous causes springs,     What mighty contests rise from trivial things,     I sing — This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due:     This, ev’n Belinda may vouchsafe to view:    Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,     If She inspire, and He approve my lays.     Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel     A well-bred Lord t’ assault a gentle Belle?     O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor’d,    Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?     In tasks so bold, can little men engage,     And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty Rage?     Sol thro’ white curtains shot a tim’rous ray,     And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day:    Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake,     And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake:     Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock’d the ground,     And the press’d watch return’d a silver sound.     Belinda still her downy pillow prest,    Her guardian Sylph prolong’d the balmy rest:     ’Twas He had summon’d to her silent bed     The morning-dream that hover’d o’er her head;     A Youth more glitt’ring than a Birth-night Beau,     (That ev’n in slumber caus’d her cheek to glow)    Seem’d to her ear his winning lips to lay,     And thus in whispers said, or seem’d to say:     “Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish’d care     Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air!     If e’er one vision touch’d thy infant thought,    Of all the Nurse and all the Priest have taught;     Of airy Elves by moonlight shadows seen,     The silver token, and the circled green,     Or virgins visited by Angel-pow’rs,     With golden crowns and wreaths of heav’nly flow’rs;    Hear and believe! thy own importance know,     Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.     Some secret truths, from learned pride conceal’d,     To Maids alone and Children are reveal’d:     What tho’ no credit doubting Wits may give?    The Fair and Innocent shall still believe.     Know, then, unnumber’d Spirits round thee fly,     The light Militia of the lower sky:     These, tho’ unseen, are ever on the wing,     Hang o’er the Box, and hover round the Ring.    Think what an equipage thou hast in Air,     And view with scorn two Pages and a Chair.     As now your own, our beings were of old,     And once inclos’d in Woman’s beauteous mould;     Thence, by a soft transition, we repair    From earthly Vehicles to these of air.     Think not, when Woman’s transient breath is fled     That all her vanities at once are dead;     Succeeding vanities she still regards,     And tho’ she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards.    Her joy in gilded Chariots, when alive,     And love of Ombre, after death survive.     For when the Fair in all their pride expire,     To their first Elements their Souls retire:     The Sprites of fiery Termagants in Flame    Mount up, and take a Salamander’s name.     Soft yielding minds to Water glide away,     And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental Tea.     The graver Prude sinks downward to a Gnome,     In search of mischief still on Earth to roam.    The light Coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair,     And sport and flutter in the fields of Air.     “Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste     Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embrac’d:     For Spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease    Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.     What guards the purity of melting Maids,     In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,     Safe from the treach’rous friend, the daring spark,     The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,    When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,     When music softens, and when dancing fires?     ’Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,     Tho’ Honour is the word with Men below.     “Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,    For life predestin’d to the Gnomes’ embrace.     These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,     When offers are disdain’d, and love deny’d:     Then gay Ideas crowd the vacant brain,     While Peers, and Dukes, and all their sweeping train,    And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear,     And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear.     ’Tis these that early taint the female soul,     Instruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll,     Teach Infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know,    And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.     “Oft, when the world imagine women stray,     The Sylphs thro’ mystic mazes guide their way,     Thro’ all the giddy circle they pursue,     And old impertinence expel by new.    What tender maid but must a victim fall     To one man’s treat, but for another’s ball?     When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand,     If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?     With varying vanities, from ev’ry part,   They shift the moving Toyshop of their heart;     Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,     Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.     This erring mortals Levity may call;     Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.   Of these am I, who thy protection claim,     A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.     Late, as I rang’d the crystal wilds of air,     In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star     I saw, alas! some dread event impend,   Ere to the main this morning sun descend,     But heav’n reveals not what, or how, or where:     Warn’d by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!     This to disclose is all thy guardian can:     Beware of all, but most beware of Man!”   He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long,     Leap’d up, and wak’d his mistress with his tongue.     ’Twas then, Belinda, if report say true,     Thy eyes first open’d on a Billet-doux;     Wounds, Charms, and Ardors were no sooner read,   But all the Vision vanish’d from thy head.     And now, unveil’d, the Toilet stands display’d,     Each silver Vase in mystic order laid.     First, rob’d in white, the Nymph intent adores,     With head uncover’d, the Cosmetic pow’rs.   A heav’nly image in the glass appears,     To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;     Th’ inferior Priestess, at her altar’s side,     Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride.     Unnumber’d treasures ope at once, and here   The various off’rings of the world appear;     From each she nicely culls with curious toil,     And decks the Goddess with the glitt’ring spoil.     This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks,     And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.   The Tortoise here and Elephant unite,     Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white.     Here files of pins extend their shining rows,     Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux.     Now awful Beauty puts on all its arms;   The fair each moment rises in her charms,     Repairs her smiles, awakens ev’ry grace,     And calls forth all the wonders of her face;     Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,     And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.   The busy Sylphs surround their darling care,     These set the head, and those divide the hair,     Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown:     And Betty’s prais’d for labours not her own.     Not with more glories, in th’ etherial plain,     The Sun first rises o’er the purpled main,     Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams     Launch’d on the bosom of the silver Thames.    Fair Nymphs, and well-drest Youths around her shone.     But ev’ry eye was fix’d on her alone.     On her white breast a sparkling Cross she wore,     Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore.     Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,    Quick as her eyes, and as unfix’d as those:     Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;     Oft she rejects, but never once offends.     Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,     And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.    Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,     Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide:     If to her share some female errors fall,     Look on her face, and you’ll forget ’em all.     This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind,    Nourish’d two Locks, which graceful hung behind     In equal curls, and well conspir’d to deck     With shining ringlets the smooth iv’ry neck.     Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,     And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.    With hairy springes we the birds betray,     Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,     Fair tresses man’s imperial race ensnare,     And beauty draws us with a single hair.     Th’ advent’rous Baron the bright locks admir’d;    He saw, he wish’d, and to the prize aspir’d.     Resolv’d to win, he meditates the way,     By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;     For when success a Lover’s toil attends,     Few ask, if fraud or force attain’d his ends.    For this, ere Phœbus rose, he had implor’d     Propitious heav’n, and ev’ry pow’r ador’d,     But chiefly Love — to Love an Altar built,     Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt.     There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves;    And all the trophies of his former loves;     With tender Billet-doux he lights the pyre,     And breathes three am’rous sighs to raise the fire.     Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes     Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize:    The pow’rs gave ear, and granted half his pray’r,     The rest, the winds dispers’d in empty air.     But now secure the painted vessel glides,     The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides:     While melting music steals upon the sky,    And soften’d sounds along the waters die;     Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play,     Belinda smil’d, and all the world was gay.     All but the Sylph — with careful thoughts opprest,     Th’ impending woe sat heavy on his breast.    He summons strait his Denizens of air;     The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:     Soft o’er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe,     That seem’d but Zephyrs to the train beneath.     Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold,    Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold;     Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight,     Their fluid bodies half dissolv’d in light,     Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,     Thin glitt’ring textures of the filmy dew,    Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies,     Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes,     While ev’ry beam new transient colours flings,     Colours that change whene’er they wave their wings.     Amid the circle, on the gilded mast,    Superior by the head, was Ariel plac’d;     His purple pinions op’ning to the sun,     He rais’d his azure wand, and thus begun.     “Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear!     Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear!    Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign’d     By laws eternal to th’ aërial kind.     Some in the fields of purest Æther play,     And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.     Some guide the course of wand’ring orbs on high,    Or roll the planets thro’ the boundless sky.     Some less refin’d, beneath the moon’s pale light     Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night,     Or suck the mists in grosser air below,     Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,    Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main,     Or o’er the glebe distil the kindly rain.     Others on earth o’er human race preside,     Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:     Of these the chief the care of Nations own,    And guard with Arms divine the British Throne.     “Our humbler province is to tend the Fair,     Not a less pleasing, tho’ less glorious care;     To save the powder from too rude a gale,     Nor let th’ imprison’d essences exhale;    To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow’rs;     To steal from rainbows e’er they drop in show’rs     A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,     Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;     Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,   To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow.     “This day, black Omens threat the brightest Fair,     That e’er deserv’d a watchful spirit’s care;     Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight;     But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night.   Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law,     Or some frail China jar receive a flaw;     Or stain her honour or her new brocade;     Forget her pray’rs, or miss a masquerade;     Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;   Or whether Heav’n has doom’d that Shock must fall.     Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:     The flutt’ring fan be Zephyretta’s care;     The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign;     And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;   Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav’rite Lock;     Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.     “To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note,     We trust th’ important charge, the Petticoat:     Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail,   Tho’ stiff with hoops, and arm’d with ribs of whale;     Form a strong line about the silver bound,     And guard the wide circumference around.     “Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,     His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,   Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins,     Be stopp’d in vials, or transfix’d with pins;     Or plung’d in lakes of bitter washes lie,     Or wedg’d whole ages in a bodkin’s eye:     Gums and Pomatums shall his flight restrain,   While clogg’d he beats his silken wings in vain;     Or Alum styptics with contracting pow’r     Shrink his thin essence like a rivel’d flow’r:     Or, as Ixion fix’d, the wretch shall feel     The giddy motion of the whirling Mill,   In fumes of burning Chocolate shall glow,     And tremble at the sea that froths below!”     He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;     Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;     Some thred the mazy ringlets of her hair;   Some hang upon the pendants of her ear:     With beating hearts the dire event they wait,     Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate.     Close by those meads, for ever crown’d with flow’rs,     Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow’rs,     There stands a structure of majestic frame,     Which from the neighb’ring Hampton takes its name.    Here Britain’s statesmen oft the fall foredoom     Of foreign Tyrants and of Nymphs at home;     Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,     Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes Tea.     Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,    To taste awhile the pleasures of a Court;     In various talk th’ instructive hours they past,     Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;     One speaks the glory of the British Queen,     And one describes a charming Indian screen;    A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;     At ev’ry word a reputation dies.     Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,     With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.     Mean while, declining from the noon of day,    The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;     The hungry Judges soon the sentence sign,     And wretches hang that jury-men may dine;     The merchant from th’ Exchange returns in peace,     And the long labours of the Toilet cease.    Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites,     Burns to encounter two advent’rous Knights,     At Ombre singly to decide their doom;     And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.     Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join,    Each band the number of the sacred nine.     Soon as she spreads her hand, th’ aërial guard     Descend, and sit on each important card:     First Ariel perch’d upon a Matadore,     Then each, according to the rank they bore;    For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,     Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.     Behold, four Kings in majesty rever’d,     With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;     And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flow’r,    Th’ expressive emblem of their softer pow’r;     Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,     Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;     And particolour’d troops, a shining train,     Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.    The skilful Nymph reviews her force with care:     “Let Spades be trumps!” she said, and trumps they were.     Now move to war her sable Matadores,     In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.     Spadillio first, unconquerable Lord!    Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.     As many more Manillio forc’d to yield,     And march’d a victor from the verdant field.     Him Basto follow’d, but his fate more hard     Gain’d but one trump and one Plebeian card.    With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,     The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,     Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal’d,     The rest, his many-colour’d robe conceal’d.     The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,    Proves the just victim of his royal rage.     Ev’n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o’erthrew     And mow’d down armies in the fights of Loo,     Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,     Falls undistinguish’d by the victor spade!    Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;     Now to the Baron fate inclines the field.     His warlike Amazon her host invades,     Th’ imperial consort of the crown of Spades.     The Club’s black Tyrant first her victim dy’d,    Spite of his haughty mien, and barb’rous pride:     What boots the regal circle on his head,     His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;     That long behind he trails his pompous robe,     And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe?    The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;     Th’ embroider’d King who shows but half his face,     And his refulgent Queen, with pow’rs combin’d     Of broken troops an easy conquest find.     Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,    With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.     Thus when dispers’d a routed army runs,     Of Asia’s troops, and Afric’s sable sons,     With like confusion different nations fly,     Of various habit, and of various dye,    The pierc’d battalions dis-united fall,     In heaps on heaps; one fate o’erwhelms them all.     The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,     And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.     At this, the blood the virgin’s cheek forsook,    A livid paleness spreads o’er all her look;     She sees, and trembles at th’ approaching ill,     Just in the jaws of ruin, and Codille.     And now (as oft in some distemper’d State)     On one nice Trick depends the gen’ral fate.    An Ace of Hearts steps forth: The King unseen     Lurk’d in her hand, and mourn’d his captive Queen:     He springs to Vengeance with an eager pace,     And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace.     The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky;   The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.     Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,     Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.     Sudden, these honours shall be snatch’d away,     And curs’d for ever this victorious day.   For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown’d,     The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;     On shining Altars of Japan they raise     The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:     From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,   While China’s earth receives the smoking tide:     At once they gratify their scent and taste,     And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.     Straight hover round the Fair her airy band;     Some, as she sipp’d, the fuming liquor fann’d,   Some o’er her lap their careful plumes display’d,     Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.     Coffee, (which makes the politician wise,     And see thro’ all things with his half-shut eyes)     Sent up in vapours to the Baron’s brain   New Stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain.     Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere’t is too late,     Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla’s Fate!     Chang’d to a bird, and sent to flit in air,     She dearly pays for Nisus’ injur’d hair!   But when to mischief mortals bend their will,     How soon they find fit instruments of ill!     Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace     A two-edg’d weapon from her shining case:     So Ladies in Romance assist their Knight,   Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.     He takes the gift with rev’rence, and extends     The little engine on his fingers’ ends;     This just behind Belinda’s neck he spread,     As o’er the fragrant steams she bends her head.   Swift to the Lock a thousand Sprites repair,     A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair;     And thrice they twitch’d the diamond in her ear;     Thrice she look’d back, and thrice the foe drew near.     Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought   The close recesses of the Virgin’s thought;     As on the nosegay in her breast reclin’d,     He watch’d th’ Ideas rising in her mind,     Sudden he view’d, in spite of all her art,     An earthly Lover lurking at her heart.   Amaz’d, confus’d, he found his pow’r expir’d,     Resign’d to fate, and with a sigh retir’d.     The Peer now spreads 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 shears, and cut the Sylph in twain,     (But airy substance soon unites again)     The meeting points the sacred hair dissever     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 lapdogs breathe their last;     Or when rich China vessels fall’n from high,   In glitt’ring dust and painted fragments lie!     “Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,”     The victor cry’d, “the glorious Prize is mine!     While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,     Or in a coach and six the British Fair,   As long as Atalantis shall be read,     Or the small pillow grace a Lady’s bed,     While visits shall be paid on solemn days,     When num’rous wax-lights in bright order blaze,     While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,   So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!     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 th’ imperial tow’rs 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 unresisted steel?”     But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress’d,     And secret passions labour’d in her breast.     Not youthful kings in battle seiz’d alive,     Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,    Not ardent lovers robb’d of all their bliss,     Not ancient ladies when refus’d a kiss,     Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,     Not Cynthia when her manteau’s pinn’d awry,     E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,    As thou, sad Virgin! for thy ravish’d Hair.     For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew     And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,     Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,     As ever sully’d the fair face of light,    Down to the central earth, his proper scene,     Repair’d to search the gloomy Cave of Spleen.     Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome,     And in a vapour reach’d the dismal dome.     No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,    The dreaded East is all the wind that blows.     Here in a grotto, shelter’d close from air,     And screen’d in shades from day’s detested glare,     She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,     Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head.    Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place,     But diff’ring far in figure and in face.     Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,     Her wrinkled form in black and white array’d;     With store of pray’rs, for mornings, nights, and noons,    Her hand is fill’d; her bosom with lampoons.     There Affectation, with a sickly mien,     Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,     Practis’d to lisp, and hang the head aside.     Faints into airs, and languishes with pride,    On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,     Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show.     The fair ones feel such maladies as these,     When each new night-dress gives a new disease.     A constant Vapour o’er the palace flies;    Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise;     Dreadful, as hermit’s dreams in haunted shades,     Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.     Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,     Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:    Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,     And crystal domes, and angels in machines.     Unnumber’d throngs on every side are seen,     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 sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pie 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 Spleenwort in his hand.     Then thus address’d the pow’r: “Hail, wayward Queen!     Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:     Parent of vapours and of female wit,    Who give th’ hysteric, or poetic fit,     On various tempers act by various ways,     Make some take physic, others scribble plays;     Who cause the proud their visits to delay,     And send the godly in a pet to pray.    A nymph there is, that all thy pow’r disdains,     And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.     But oh! if e’er thy Gnome could spoil 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 suspicion when no soul was rude,     Or discompos’d the head-dress of a Prude,    Or e’er to costive lap-dog gave disease,     Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease:     Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin,     That single act gives half the world the spleen.”     The Goddess with a discontented 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 Ulysses held the winds;     There she collects the force of female lungs,     Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues.    A Vial next she fills with fainting fears,     Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.     The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,     Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.     Sunk in Thalestris’ arms the nymph he found,    Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound.     Full o’er their heads the swelling bag he rent,     And all the Furies issu’d at the vent.     Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,     And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.    “O wretched maid!” she spread her hands, and cry’d,     (While Hampton’s echoes, “Wretched maid!” reply’d)     “Was it for this you took such constant care     The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?     For this your locks in paper durance bound,   For this with tort’ring irons wreath’d around?     For this with fillets strain’d your tender head,     And bravely bore the double loads of lead?     Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,     While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!   Honour forbid! at whose unrivall’d shrine     Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.     Methinks already I your tears survey,     Already hear the horrid things they say,     Already see you a degraded toast,   And all your honour in a whisper lost!     How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?     ’Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!     And shall this prize, th’ inestimable prize,     Expos’d thro’ crystal to the gazing eyes,   And heighten’d by the diamond’s circling rays,     On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?     Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow,     And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;     Sooner let earth, air, sea, to Chaos fall,   Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!”     She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,     And bids her Beau demand the precious hairs;     (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain,     And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)   With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,     He first the snuff-box open’d, then the case,     And thus broke out — “My Lord, why, what the devil?     "Z — ds! damn the lock! ’fore Gad, you must be civil!     Plague on’t!’t is past a jest — nay prithee, pox!   Give her the hair”— he spoke, and rapp’d his box.     “It grieves me much,” reply’d the Peer again,     “Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.     But by this Lock, this sacred Lock I swear,     (Which never more shall join its parted hair;   Which never more its honours shall renew,     Clipp’d from the lovely head where late it grew)     That while my nostrils draw the vital air,     This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.”     He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread   The long-contended honours of her head.     But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so;     He breaks the Vial whence the sorrows flow.     Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,     Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown’d in tears;   On her heav’d bosom hung her drooping head,     Which, with a sigh, she rais’d; and thus she said.     “For ever curs’d be this detested day,     Which snatch’d my best, my fav’rite curl away!     Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,   If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen!     Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,     By love of Courts to num’rous ills betray’d.     Oh had I rather un-admir’d remain’d     In some lone isle, or distant Northern land;   Where the gilt Chariot never marks the way,     Where none learn Ombre, none e’er taste Bohea!     There kept my charms conceal’d from mortal eye,     Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.     What mov’d my mind with youthful Lords to roam?   Oh had I stay’d, and said my pray’rs at home!     ’T was this, the morning omens seem’d to tell,     Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;     The tott’ring China shook without a wind.     Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!   A Sylph too warn’d me of the threats of fate,     In mystic visions, now believ’d too late!     See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!     My hands shall rend what ev’n thy rapine spares:     These in two sable ringlets taught to break,   Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;     The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,     And in its fellow’s fate foresees its own;     Uncurl’d it hangs, the fatal shears demands,     And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.   Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize     Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!”     She said: the pitying audience melt in tears.     But Fate and Jove had stopp’d the Baron’s ears.     In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,     For who can move when fair Belinda fails?    Not half so fix’d the Trojan could remain,     While Anna begg’d and Dido rag’d in vain.     Then grave Clarissa graceful wav’d her fan;     Silence ensu’d, and thus the nymph began.     “Say, why are Beauties prais’d and honour’d most,    The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast?     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 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:     That men may say, 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 small-pox, or chas’d old-age away;     Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce,     Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?     To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,     Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.    But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,     Curl’d or uncurl’d, since Locks will turn to grey;     Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,     And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;     What then remains but well our pow’r 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 pretty eyes may roll;     Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.”    So spoke the Dame, but no applause ensu’d;     Belinda frown’d, Thalestris call’d her Prude.     “To arms, to arms!” the fierce Virago cries,     And swift as lightning to the combat flies.     All side in parties, and begin th’ attack;    Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack;     Heroes’ and Heroines’ shouts confus’dly rise,     And bass, and treble voices strike 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 passions rage;     ’Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;     And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:     Jove’s thunder roars, heav’n trembles all around,    Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound:     Earth shakes her nodding tow’rs, the ground gives way.     And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!     Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce’s height     Clapp’d his glad wings, and sate to view the fight:    Propp’d on the bodkin spears, the Sprites survey     The growing combat, or assist the fray.     While thro’ the press enrag’d Thalestris flies,     And scatters death around from both her eyes,     A Beau and Witling perish’d in the throng,    One died in metaphor, and one in song.     “O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,”     Cry’d Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.     A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,     “Those eyes are made so killing” — was his last.    Thus on Mæander’s flow’ry margin lies     Th’ expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.     When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,     Chloe stepp’d in, and kill’d him with a frown;     She smil’d to see the doughty hero slain,    But, at her smile, the Beau reviv’d again.     Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,     Weighs the Men’s wits against the Lady’s hair;     The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;     At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.    See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,     With more than usual lightning in her eyes:     Nor fear’d the Chief th’ unequal fight to try,     Who sought no more than on his foe to die.     But this bold Lord with manly strength endu’d,    She with one finger and a thumb subdu’d:     Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,     A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;     The Gnomes direct, to ev’ry atom 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 same, his ancient personage to deck,    Her great great grandsire wore about his neck,     In three seal-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 she jingled, and the whistle blew;    Then in a bodkin grac’d her mother’s hairs,     Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)     “Boast not my fall,” he cry’d, “insulting foe!     Thou by some other shalt be laid as low,     Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:   All that I dread is leaving you behind!     Rather than so, ah let me still survive,     And burn in Cupid’s flames — but burn alive.”     “Restore the Lock!” she cries; and all around     “Restore the Lock!” the vaulted roofs rebound.   Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain     Roar’d for the handkerchief that caus’d his pain.     But see how oft ambitious aims are cross’d,     And chiefs contend ’till all the prize is lost!     The Lock, obtain’d with guilt, and kept with pain,   In ev’ry place is sought, but sought in vain:     With such a prize no mortal must be blest,     So heav’n decrees! with heav’n who can contest?     Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,     Since all things lost on earth are treasur’d there.   There Hero’s wits are kept in pond’rous vases,     And beau’s in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.     There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,     And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound,     The courtier’s promises, and sick 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 casuistry.     But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise,     Tho’ mark’d by none but quick, poetic eyes:   (So Rome’s great founder to the heav’ns withdrew,     To Proculus alone confess’d in view)     A sudden Star, it shot thro’ liquid air,     And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.     Not Berenice’s Locks first rose so bright,   The heav’ns bespangling with dishevell’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 survey,     And hail with music its propitious ray.   This the blest Lover shall for Venus take,     And send 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 ravish’d 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.   For, after all the murders of your eye,     When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:     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.