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32
The RAPE of the LOCK.
Here ſtood Ill-nature like an ancient Maid,
Her wrinkled Form in Black and White array'd;
With ſtore of Pray'rs, for Mornings, Nights, and Noons,
Her Hand is fill'd; her Boſom with Lampoons.
Her wrinkled Form in Black and White array'd;
With ſtore of Pray'rs, for Mornings, Nights, and Noons,
Her Hand is fill'd; her Boſom with Lampoons.
There Affectation with a ſickly Mien
Shows in her Cheek the Roſes of Eighteen,
Practis'd to Liſp, and hang the Head aſide,
Faints into Airs, and languiſhes with Pride;
On the rich Quilt ſinks with becoming Woe,
Wrapt in a Gown, for Sickneſs, and for Show.
The Fair ones feel such Maladies as theſe,
When each new Night-Dreſs gives a new Diſeaſe.
Shows in her Cheek the Roſes of Eighteen,
Practis'd to Liſp, and hang the Head aſide,
Faints into Airs, and languiſhes with Pride;
On the rich Quilt ſinks with becoming Woe,
Wrapt in a Gown, for Sickneſs, and for Show.
The Fair ones feel such Maladies as theſe,
When each new Night-Dreſs gives a new Diſeaſe.
A conſtant Vapour o'er the Palace flies;
Strange Phantoms riſing as the Miſts ariſe;
Dreadful, as Hermit's Dreams in haunted Shades,
Or bright as Viſions of expiring Maids.
Now glaring Fiends, and Snakes on rolling Spires,
Pale Spectres, gaping Tombs, and Purple Fires:
Strange Phantoms riſing as the Miſts ariſe;
Dreadful, as Hermit's Dreams in haunted Shades,
Or bright as Viſions of expiring Maids.
Now glaring Fiends, and Snakes on rolling Spires,
Pale Spectres, gaping Tombs, and Purple Fires:
Now
