But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed, And secret passions laboured in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, Not ardent lover robbed of all his bliss, 5 Not ancient lady 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 While her racked soul repose and peace requires, The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires. "O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cried, (And Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied) "Was it for this you took such constant care 15 Combs, bodkins, leads, pomatums to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound? For this with tort'ring irons wreathed around? Oh had the youth been but content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these! 20 Gods! shall the ravisher display this hair, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine Ease, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex resign. Methinks already I your tears survey, 25 Already hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast, And all your honour in a whisper lost! How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! 30 And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heightened by the diamond's circling rays, On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow, 35 And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!" She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: 40 Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane, With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, And thus broke out--"My lord, why, what the devil! 45 Zounds! 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. "It grieves me much," replied the peer again, "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain: 50 But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair; Which never more its honours shall renew, Clipped from the lovely head where once it grew) That, while my nostrils draw the vital air, 55