'Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 10 Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford? Why angels call'd, and angel-like adored? Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved 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 chased old-age away; 20 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 gray; Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose? 30 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 ensued; 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 the attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; 40 Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly 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 heavenly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms, And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 50 Earth shakes her nodding towers, 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 sat to view the fight; Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray. While through the press enraged 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. 60 'O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,' Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, 'Those eyes are made so killing!'--was his last. Thus on Maeander's[36] flowery margin lies The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepped in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70