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As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
Tavoid great errors, inust the less commit;
Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays,
For not to know some trifles is a praise.
Most Critics, fond of some subservient art,
Still make the Whole depend upon a Part:
They talk of principles, but notions prize;
And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice.

Once on a time, LaMancha's Knight, they say,
A certain Bard encount'ring on the way,
Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage,
As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage;
Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
Our Author, happy in a judge so nice,
Produc'd his play, and begg'd the Knight's advice,
Made him observe the subject and the plot,
The manners, passions, unities: what not?
All which exact to rule, were brought about,
Were but a Combat in the lists left out.
"What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the

Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.
"Not so, by heaven!" he answers in a rage;
Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on
"the stage."



So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.
Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
Thus Critics of less judgement than caprice,
Curious, not knowing; not exact, but nice,
From short ideas; and offend in arts
(As most in manners) by a love to parts.

Some to Conceit alone their taste confine,
And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;
Pleas'd with a work where nothing 's just or fit;
One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit.
Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True wit is Nature to advantage dress'd;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd;
Something, whose truth convinc'datsight wefind,
That gives us back the image of our mind.
As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
As bodies perish thro' excess of blood.

Others for language all their care express,
And value books, as women men, for dress :
Their praise is still - The Style is excellent!
The Sense they humbly take upon content.
Words are like leaves; and, where they most

Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
Its gaudy colors spreads on ev'ry place;
The face of Nature we no more survey;
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
But true expression, like th' unchanging Sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it shines
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Appears more decent as more suitable ;

A vile conceit, in pompous words exp est,
Is like a clown in regal purple drest:
For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,
As sev'ral garb with country, town, and court.
Some, by old words, to fame have made pretence;
Antients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense:
Such labor'd nothings, in so strange a style,
Amaze th’unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.
Unlucky as Fungoso in the play,
These sparks, with awkward vanity, display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday!
And but so mimic antient wits at best,
As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest.
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold ;
Alike fantastic, if too new or old.
Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

But most by numbers judge a poct's song;
And smooth or rough with them is rightorwrong:
In the brightMuse tho' thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admuire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair
Not for the doctrine, but the music there?
These equal syllables alone require,
Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line :
While they ring round the saine unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymnes:
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line, "it whispers thro' the trees:'
If crystal streams" withpleasingmurmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd(notinvain)with" sleep."
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,`
A needless Alexandrine ends the song, [along.
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length
Leave such to tune their own dull thymes, and


What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigor of a line
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweet-
ness join.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance;
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth streaminsmoothernumbersflows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to
The line too labors, and the words move slow:
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along
the main.


Hear how Timotheus varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passious fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love:
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:

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Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by sound!
The pow'r of music all our hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now,

Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.
At every trifle scorn to take offence;
That always shows great pride or little sense:
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve:
As things seem large which we thro'uists desery;
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some foreign writers, some our own, despise; The antients only, or the moderns, prize. Thus wit, like faith, by cach man is applied To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine,, Which not alone the southern wit sublines, But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last: Tho' cach may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days, Regard not then if wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true,

Some ne'er advance a judgement of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town; They reason and conclude by precedent, And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Somejudgeof authors' names, not works; and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. Of all this servile herd, the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with quality: A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord ; What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starv'd hackney sonnetteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!


The vulgar thus thro' imitation err; As oft the learn'd by being singular: So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng By chance go right, they purposely go wrong: So schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damn'd for having too much wit. Some praise at morning what they blame at night;" But always think the last opinion right. A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd; While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, Twixt sense and nonsense daily change theirside. Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say; And still to-morrow wiser than to day. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow ; Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread; Who knew inost sentences was deepest read: Faith, Gospel, all seem'd made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted:

Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn,
What wondermodes in wit should take theirturn!
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current-folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think the reputation safe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh,

Some valuing those of their own side or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind!
Fondly we think we honor merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly against Dryden rose,
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux :
But sense surviv'd when merry jests were past,
For rising merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise;
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue;
But, like a shadow, proves the substance true:
For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too pow'rful beams displays,
It draws up vapors which obscure its rays;
But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears; When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand years: Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, And bare threescore is all e'en that can boast Our sons their father's falling language see, And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright idea of the master's mind, Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colors soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, And each bold figure just begins to live; The treach'rous colors the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away!

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praise we boast; But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy : Then most our trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with Sure some to vex, but never all to please: [ease, 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun; By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!

If wit so much from ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
And sich were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown
Fanploy their pains to spurn some others down;
And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools;
But still the worst with most regret commend,
For each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise!
Ah! ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be lost.

Good nature and good sense must ever join:
To err is human; to forgive, divine.

But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain,
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times,
No pardon vile obscenity should find,
Tho' wit and art conspire to move your mind;
But dulness with obscenity must prove
As shameful sure as impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
Sprank the rank weed, and thriv'd with large

increase :

When love was all an easy monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never in a war,
Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ;
Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit:
The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimprov'd away;
The modest fan was lifted up no more;
And virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.
The following licence of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;
Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
Where Heaven's free subjects might their rights

Lest God himself should seem too absolute :
Pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare,
And vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there!
Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
And the press groan'd with licens'd blasphemies.
These monsters, critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an author into vice:
All seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all seems yellow to the jaundic’'d eye.

Learn then what morals critics ought to show,
For 'tis but half a judge's task to know.
Tis not enough, taste, judgement, learning, join;
In all you speak, let truth and candor shine:
That not alone what to your sense is due
All may allow, but seek your friendship too.

Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;

you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last.
"Tis not enough your counsel still be true;
Blunttruths moremischiefthannice falsehoodsdo:
Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.
Without good-breeding, truth is disapprov'd;
That only makes superior sense belov❜d.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
For the worst avarice is that of sense.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.
Fear not the anger of the wise to raise ;
Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.
"Twere well might critics still thisfreedom take;
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
And stares tremendous, with a threat'ning eye,
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry,
Fear most to tax an honorable fool,
Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull;
Such, without wit, are poets when they please,
As without learning they can take degrees.
Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful satires,
And flatt'ry to fulsome dedicators, [more
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no
Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er.
"Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain : ́
Your silence there is better than your spite;
For who can rail so long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep
And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.
False steps but help them to renew the race;
As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace
What crowds of these, impenitently bold,"
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
Still run on poets in a raging vein,
Ev'n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain;
Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!

Such shameful bards we have; and yet'tis true, There are as mad abandon'd critics too. The book ful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales: With him, most authors steal their works,orbuy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary. Name a new play, and he's the Poet's friend, Nay,show'dhisfaults, but when would Poetsmend? No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, Nor is Paul's church more safethan Paul's church yard:

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Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread. Distrustful sense with modest cantion speaks," It still looks home,and short excursions makes; But rattling nonsense in full vollies breaks, And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside, Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.

But where's the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?



Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age,
And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.

But see! each Muse, in Leo's golden days,
Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays;
Rome's antient Genius, o'er its ruin spread,
Shakes off the dust, and rears its rev'rend head.
Then Sculpture and her sister-arts revive;
Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live?
With sweeter notes each rising temple rung;
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung.
Immortal Vida! on whose honor'd brow
The Poet's bays and Critic's ivy grow,
Cremona now shall ever boast thy name;
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

But soon by impious arts from Latium chas'd,
Their antient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd;
Thence Arts o'er all the northern world advance,
But Critic-learning flourish'd most in France:
The rules a nation, born to serve obey, obeys;
And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.
But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd,
And kept unconquer'd and unciviliz'd;
Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
We still defied the Romans, as of old.
Yet some there were, among the sounder few
Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster antient cause,
And here restor'd Wit's fundamental laws;
Such was the Muse whole rules and practice tell,

Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well." Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good,

Fancy and art in gay Petronius please;
The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease.
In grave Quintilian's copious work we find
The justest rules and clearest method join'd:
Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace;
But less to please the eye than arm the band;
Still fit for use, and ready at command.

With manners gen'rous as his noble blood;
To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And ev'ry Author's merit but his own.
Such late was Walsh, the Muse's judge and friend,
Who justly knew to blame or to commend:
To failings mild, but zealous for desert;
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
This humble praise, lamented shade! receive,
This praise at least a grateful Muse may give.
The Muse whose early voice you taught to sing,
Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd hertenderwing,

Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,(Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
And bless their Critic with a Poet's fire. But in low numbers short excursion tries: [view;
An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust, Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may
With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:
Whose own example strengthens all his laws; Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame;
And is himself that great sublime he draws.
Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame:
Averse alike to flatter, or offend;
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

Thus long succeeding Critics justly reign'd,
Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd.
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
And Arts still follow'd where the Eagles flew :
From the same foes, at last, both felt their

Unbiass'd or by favor or by spite;
Nor dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right;
Tho' learn'd well-bred, and tho' well bred sincere,
Modestly bold, and humanly severe;
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of books and human kind;
Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride!
And love to praise, with reason on his side?

Such once were Critics; such the happy few
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore,
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore,
He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,
Led by the light of the Mæonian Star.
Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
Receiv'd his laws, and stood convinc'd; 'twas fit,
Who conquer'd Nature should preside o'er Wit.
Horace still charins with gracefal negligence,
And without method talks us into sense;
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
He who, supreme in judgement as in wit,
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ;
Yet judg'd with coolness, tho' he sung with fire;
His Precepts teach but what his Works inspire.
Our Critics take a contrary extreme;
They judge with fury, but they write with

Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.
See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine,
And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line!

And the same age saw Learning fall, and Rome.
With Tyranny then Superstition join'd;
As that the body, this enslav'd the mind;
Much was believ'd, but little understood;
And to be dull was construed to be good :
A second deluge Learning thus o'er-run;
And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun.

At length Erasmus, that great injur'd name;
The glory of the Priesthood, and the shame!

§ 10. The Rape of the Lock. POPE. Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.



WHAT dire offence from am'rous causes

What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
I sing-This verse to CARYL, Muse! is due,
This even Belinda may vouchsafe to view:

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Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,
If She inspire, and He approve my lays.
Say what strange motive, goddess! could coin-
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?

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' honor is the word with men below.

Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their

Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray,
And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day:
Now lapdogs gave themselves the rousing shake;
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake :
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the

For life predestin'd to the gnomes' embrace.
These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,
When offers are disdain'd, and love denied:
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain,


And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound.
Belinda still her downy pillow press'd,
Her guardian Sylph prolong'd the balmy rest-
Twas He had summon'd to her silent bed
The morning-dreams that hover'd o'er her head-While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping
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 eye of young coquettes to roll,
Teach infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know,
And little hearts to flutter at a beau.

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 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 heavenly

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, or 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
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 maids 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,
sport and flutter in the fields of air.

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 toy-shop of their heart;
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-
knots strive,

Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
This erring mortals levity inay 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 chrystal 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 Heaven reveals not what, or how, or where;
Warn'd by thy Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!
fled,This to disclose is all thy guardian can:

Beware of all, but most beware of man! [long,

He said; whenShock, who thought she slept too
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; [read,
Wounds, charins, and ardors, were no sooner
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 heavenly 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.


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