Part 4 BUT anxious Cares the pensive Nymph opprest, And secret Passions labour'd in her Breast. Not youthful Kings in Battel 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. 4.10 For, that sad moment, when the _Sylphs_ withdrew, And _Ariel_ weeping from _Belinda_ flew, _Umbriel_, a dusky melancholy Spright, As ever sully'd the fair face of Light, Down to the Central Earth, his proper Scene, Repairs to search the gloomy Cave of _Spleen_. Swift on his sooty Pinions flitts 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. 4.20 Here, in a Grotto, sheltred 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. 4.30 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; 4.40 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 ev'ry side are seen Of Bodies chang'd to various Forms by _Spleen_. Here living _Teapots_ stand, one Arm held out, One bent; the Handle this, and that the Spout: 4.50 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 Bottels, call aloud for Corks. Safe past the _Gnome_ thro' this fantastick Band, A Branch of healing _Spleenwort_ in his hand. Then thus addrest the Pow'r--Hail wayward Queen! Who rule the Sex to Fifty from Fifteen, Parent of Vapors and of Female Wit, Who give th' _Hysteric_ or _Poetic_ Fit, 4.60 On various Tempers act by various ways, Make some take Physick, others scribble Plays; Who cause the Proud their Visits to delay, And send the Godly in a Pett, 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 Matron's Cheeks inflame, Or change Complexions at a losing Game; 4.70 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. 4.80 A wondrous 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 Gift 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. 4.90 Full o'er their Heads the swelling Bag he rent, And all the Furies issued 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 Ecchos, 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? 4.100 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 unrival'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! 4.110 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 _Hide_-Park _Circus_* grow, And Wits take Lodgings in the Sound of _Bow_*; Sooner let Earth, Air, Sea, to _Chaos_ fall, Men, Monkies, Lap-dogs, Parrots, perish all! 4.120 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! 'tis past a Jest---nay prithee, Pox! "Give her the Hair---he spoke, and rapp'd his Box. 4.130 It grieves me much (reply'd the Peer again) Who speaks so well shou'd 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, Clipt 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. 4.140 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! 4.150 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 Desarts bloom and die. What mov'd my Mind with youthful Lords to rome? O had I stay'd, and said my Pray'rs at home! 4.160 'Twas 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_ sate 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 snowie Neck. 4.170 The Sister-Lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its Fellow's Fate foresees its own; Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal Sheers 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! 24 migraine 117. where the fashionable drove their carriages 118. Bow Church in Cheapside, the mercantile section of London 156. kind of tea .