While thro' the press enrag'd 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," Cry'd 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 flow'ry margin lies 65 Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again. 70 Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the Men's wits against the Lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, 75 With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold Lord with manly strength endu'd, She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd: 80 Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw; The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, 85 And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great great grandsire wore about his neck, 90 In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, 95 Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) "Boast not my fall" (he cry'd) "insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low, Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind: All that I dread is leaving you behind! 100 Rather than so, ah let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames--but burn alive." "Restore the Lock!" she cries; and all around "Restore the Lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 105 Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, And chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost! The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: 110 With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?