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| WHAT dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs, |
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| What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things, |
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| I sing—This Verse to C—-, Muse! is due; |
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| This, ev'n Belinda may vouchfafe to view: |
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| Slight is the Subject, but not so the Praise, |
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| If She inspire, and He approve my Lays. |
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 Say what strange Motive, Goddess! cou'd compel |
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| A well-bred Lord t'assault a gentle Belle? |
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| Oh say what stranger Cause, yet unexplor'd, |
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| Cou'd make a gentle Belle reject a Lord? |
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| And dwells such Rage in softest Bosoms then? |
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| And lodge such daring Souls in Little Men? |
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| Sol thro' white Curtains shot a tim'rous Ray, |
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| And op'd those Eyes that must eclipse the Day; |
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| Now Lapdogs give themselves the rowzing Shake, |
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| And sleepless Lovers, just at Twelve, awake: |
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| Thrice rung the Bell, the Slipper knock'd the Ground, |
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| And the press'd Watch return'd a silver Sound. |
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| Belinda still her downy Pillow prest, |
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| Her Guardian Sylph prolong'd the balmy Rest. |
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| 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent Bed |
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| The Morning-Dream that hover'd o'er her Head. |
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| A Youth more glitt'ring than a Birth-night Beau, |
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| (That ev'n in Slumber caus'd her Cheek to glow) |
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| Seem'd to her Ear his winning Lips to lay, |
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| And thus in Whispers said, or seem'd to say. |
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| Fairest of Mortals, thou distinguish'd Care |
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| Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air! |
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| If e'er one Vision touch'd thy infant Thought, |
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| Of all the Nurse and all the Priest have taught, |
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| Of airy Elves by Moonlight Shadows seen, |
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| The silver Token, and the circled Green, |
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| Or Virgins visited by Angel-Pow'rs, |
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| With Golden Crowns and Wreaths of heav'nly Flowers, |
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| Hear and believe! thy own Importance know, |
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| Nor bound thy narrow Views to Things below. |
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| Some secret Truths from Learned Pride conceal'd, |
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| To Maids alone and Children are reveal'd: |
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| What tho' no Credit doubting Wits may give? |
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| The Fair and Innocent shall still believe. |
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| Know then, unnumbered Spirits round thee fly, |
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| The light Militia of the lower Sky; |
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| These, tho' unseen, are ever on the Wing, |
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| Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring. |
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| Think what an Equipage thou hast in Air, |
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| And view with scorn Two Pages and a Chair. |
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| As now your own, our Beings were of old, |
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| And once inclos'd in Woman's beauteous Mold; |
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| Thence, by a soft Transition, we repair |
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| From earthly Vehicles to these of Air. |
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| Think not, when Woman's transient Breath is fled, |
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| That all her Vanities at once are dead: |
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| Succeeding Vanities she still regards, |
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| And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the Cards. |
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| Her Joy in gilded Chariots, when alive, |
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| And Love of Ombre, after Death survive. |
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| For when the Fair in all their Pride expire, |
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| To their first Elements the Souls retire: |
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| The Sprights of fiery Termagants in Flame |
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| Mount up, and take a Salamander's Name. |
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| Soft yielding Minds to Water glide away, |
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| And sip with Nymphs, their Elemental Tea. |
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| The graver Prude sinks downward to a Gnome, |
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| In search of Mischief still on Earth to roam. |
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| The light Coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, |
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| And sport and flutter in the Fields of Air. |
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| Know farther yet; Whoever fair and chaste |
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| Rejects Mankind, is by some Sylph embrac'd: |
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| For Spirits, freed from mortal Laws, with ease |
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| Assume what Sexes and what Shapes they please. |
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| What guards the Purity of melting Maids, |
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| In Courtly Balls, and Midnight Masquerades, |
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| Safe from the treach'rous Friend, and daring Spark, |
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| The Glance by Day, the Whisper in the Dark; |
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| When kind Occasion prompts their warm Desires, |
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| When Musick softens, and when Dancing fires? |
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| 'Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know, |
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| Tho' Honour is the Word with Men below. |
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| Some Nymphs there are, too conscious of their Face, |
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| For Life predestin'd to the Gnomes Embrace. |
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| These swell their Prospects and exalt their Pride, |
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| When Offers are disdain'd, and Love deny'd. |
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| Then gay Ideas crowd the vacant Brain; |
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| While Peers and Dukes, and all their sweeping Train, |
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| And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear, |
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| And in soft Sounds, Your Grace salutes their Ear. |
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| 'Tis these that early taint the Female Soul, |
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| Instruct the Eyes of young Coquettes to roll, |
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| Teach Infants Cheeks a bidden Blush to know, |
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| And little Hearts to flutter at a Beau. |
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| Oft when the World imagine Women stray, |
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| The Sylphs thro' mystick Mazes guide their Way, |
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| Thro' all the giddy Circle they pursue, |
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| And old Impertinence expel by new. |
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| What tender Maid but must a Victim fall |
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| To one Man's Treat, but for another's Ball? |
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| When Florio speaks, what Virgin could withstand, |
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| If gentle Damon did not squeeze her Hand? |
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| With varying Vanities, from ev'ry Part, |
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| They shift the moving Toyshop of their Heart; |
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| Where Wigs with Wigs, with Sword-knots Sword-knots strive, |
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| Beaus banish Beaus, and Coaches Coaches drive. |
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| This erring Mortals Levity may call, |
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| Oh blind to Truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. |
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| Of these am I, who thy Protection claim, |
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| A watchful Sprite, and Ariel is my Name. |
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| Late, as I rang'd the Crystal Wilds of Air, |
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| In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star |
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| I saw, alas! some dread Event impend, |
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| E're to the Main this Morning Sun descend. |
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| But Heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where: |
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| Warn'd by thy Sylph, oh Pious Maid beware! |
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| This to disclose is all thy Guardian can. |
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| Beware of all, but most beware of Man! |
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| And now, unveil'd, the Toilet stands display'd, |
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| Each Silver Vase in mystic Order laid. |
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| First, rob'd in White, the Nymph intent adores |
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| With Head uncover'd, the cosmetic Pow'rs. |
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| A heav'nly Image in the Glass appears, |
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| To that she bends, to that her Eyes she rears; |
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| Th' inferior Priestess, at her Altar's side, |
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| Trembling, begins the sacred Rites of Pride. |
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| Unnumber'd Treasures ope at once, and here |
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| The various Off'rings of the World appear; |
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| From each she nicely culls with curious Toil, |
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| And decks the Goddess with the glitt'ring Spoil. |
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| This Casket India's glowing Gems unlocks, |
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| And all Arabia breathes from yonder Box. |
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| The Tortoise here and Elephant unite, |
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| Transform'd to Combs, the speckled and the white. |
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| Here Files of Pins extend their shining Rows, |
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| Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux. |
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| Now awful Beauty puts on all its Arms; |
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| The Fair each moment rises in her Charms, |
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| Repairs her Smiles, awakens ev'ry Grace, |
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| And calls forth all the Wonders of her Face; |
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| Sees by Degrees a purer Blush arise, |
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| And keener Lightnings quicken in her Eyes. |
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| The busy Sylphs surround their darling Care; |
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| These set the Head, and those divide the Hair, |
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| Some fold the Sleeve, while others plait the Gown; |
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| And Betty's prais'd for Labours not her own. |
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