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The RAPE of the LOCK.
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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 gingled, and the Whiſtle blew;
Then in a Bodkin grac'd her Mother's Hairs,
Which long ſhe wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Form'd a vaſt Buckle for his Widow's Gown:
Her infant Grandame's Whiſtle next it grew,
The Bells ſhe gingled, and the Whiſtle blew;
Then in a Bodkin grac'd her Mother's Hairs,
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!
Rather than ſo, ah let me ſtill ſurvive,
And burn in Cupid's Flames,———but burn alive.
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!
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
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!
Reſtore the Lock! the vaulted Roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in ſo loud a Strain
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
