But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed, |
[1-10] |
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, |
5 |
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. |
10 |
¡@ |
¡@ |
For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew, |
[11-16] |
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, |
¡@ |
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, |
|
As ever sullied the fair face of light, |
|
Down to the central earth, his proper scene, |
15 |
Repaired to search the gloomy Cave of Spleen. |
|
¡@ |
¡@ |
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, |
[17-24] |
And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. |
¡@ |
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, |
¡@ |
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows |
20 |
Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, |
|
And screened 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, |
25 [25-39] |
But differing far in figure and in face. |
¡@ |
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, |
¡@ |
Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed; |
(28-30) |
With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and noons, |
¡@ |
Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. |
30 |
¡@ |
¡@ |
There Affectation with a sickly mien, |
|
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, |
¡@ |
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, |
|
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride; |
|
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, |
35 (35-36) |
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 vapor o'er the palace flies, |
[39-46] |
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; |
40 |
Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in hunted shades, |
¡@ |
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. |
¡@ |
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, |
(43-44) |
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: |
¡@ |
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, |
45 (45-46) |
And crystal domes, and angels in machines. |
¡@ |
¡@ |
¡@ |
Unnumbered throngs, on every side are seen, |
[47-54] (47-48) |
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. |
¡@ |
Here living teapots stand, one arm held out, |
(49-50) |
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: |
50 |
A pipkin there like Homer's tripod walks; |
|
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks; |
|
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, |
|
And maids, turned bottels, call aloud for corks. |
|
¡@ |
¡@ |
Safe past the Gnome through this fantastic band, |
55 [55-78] |
A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. |
|
Then thus addrest the Power: "Hail wayward Queen! |
|
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen: |
¡@ |
Parent of vapors and of female wit, |
¡@ |
Who give the hysteric or poetic fit, |
60 |
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 power disdains, |
65 |
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; |
70 |
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, |
|
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, |
¡@ |
Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, |
¡@ |
Or discomposed the headdress of a prude, |
|
Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease, |
75 |
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 |
[79-88] |
Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. |
80 |
A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, |
(81-82) |
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, |
85 (85-86) |
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. |
¡@ |
The Gnome rejoycing bears her gift away, |
¡@ |
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. |
¡@ |
¡@ |
¡@ |
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, |
[89-94] |
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. |
90 |
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 cryed, |
95 [95-120] |
(While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied), |
|
"Was it for this you took such constant care |
¡@ |
The Bodkin, comb and essence to prepare? |
¡@ |
For this your locks in paper durance bound, |
(99-100) |
For this with torturing irons wreathed around! |
100 |
For this with fillets strained 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 unrivaled shrine |
105 |
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! |
110 |
How shall I, then, your hapless fame defend? |
¡@ |
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! |
|
And shall this prize, the inestimable prize, |
¡@ |
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, |
¡@ |
And heightened by the diamond's circling rays, |
115 |
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, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!" |
120 |
¡@ |
¡@ |
She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, |
[121-140] |
And bids her beau demand the precious Hairs: |
¡@ |
(Sir Plume, of amber snuffbox justly vain, |
¡@ |
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) |
|
With earnest eyes and round unthinking face, |
125 |
He first the snuffbox opened, 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 rapped his box. |
130 |
¡@ |
¡@ |
"It grieves me much," replied 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 honors shall renew, |
135 |
Clipped 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 honors of her head. |
140 |
¡@ |
¡@ |
But Umbriel, hateful Gnome, forbears not so; |
[141-146] |
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. |
¡@ |
Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, |
|
Her eyes half-languishing, half drowned in tears; |
|
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, |
145 |
Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she said: |
¡@ |
¡@ |
¡@ |
"Forever cursed be this detested day, |
[147-176] |
Which snatched my best, my faverite curl away! |
¡@ |
Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been, |
|
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! |
150 |
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, |
|
By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed. |
|
Oh had I rather unadmired remained |
¡@ |
In some lone isle, or distant northern land; |
¡@ |
Where the gilt chariot never marked the way, |
155 |
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste Bohea! |
|
There kept my charms concealed from the mortal eye, |
¡@ |
Like roses that in desarts bloom and die. |
¡@ |
What moved my mind with youthful lords to rome? |
¡@ |
Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at home! |
160 |
'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 sate mute, and Shock was most unkind! |
|
A Sylph too warned me of the threats of fate, |
165 |
In mystic visions, now believed too late! |
¡@ |
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! |
|
My hands shall rend what even thy rapine spares. |
|
These, in two sable ringlets taught to break, |
|
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck. |
170 |
The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone, |
|
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; |
¡@ |
Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands; |
|
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. |
¡@ |
Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize |
175 |
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these! |
|