DORINDA
at
her
Glass
.
DORINDA
,
once
the
fairest
of
the
Train
,
Toast
of
the
Town
,
and
Triumph
of
the
Plain
;
Whose
shining
Eyes
a
thousand
Hearts
alarm'd
,
Whose
Wit
inspired
,
and
whose
Follies
charm'd
:
Who
,
with
Invention
,
rack'd
her
careful
Breast
To
find
new
Graces
to
insult
the
rest
,
Now
sees
her
Temples
take
a
swarthy
Hue
,
And
the
dark
Veins
resign
their
beauteous
Blue
;
While
on
her
Cheeks
the
fading
Roses
die
,
And
the
last
Sparkles
tremble
in
her
Eye
.
Bright
Sol
had
drove
the
sable
Clouds
away
,
And
chear'd
the
Heavens
with
a
Stream
of
Day
,
The
woodland
Choir
their
little
Throats
prepare
,
To
chant
new
Carols
to
the
Morning
Air
:
In
Silence
wrap'd
,
and
curtain'd
from
the
Day
,
On
her
sad
Pillow
lost
Dorinda
lay
;
To
Mirth
a
Stranger
,
and
the
like
to
Ease
,
No
Pleasures
charm
her
,
nor
no
Slumbers
please
.
For
if
to
close
her
weary
Lids
she
tries
,
Detested
Wrinkles
swim
before
her
Eyes
;
At
length
the
Mourner
rais'd
her
aking
Head
,
And
discontented
left
her
hated
Bed
.
But
sighing
shun'd
the
Relicks
of
her
Pride
,
And
left
the
Toilet
for
the
Chimney
Side
:
Her
careless
Locks
upon
her
Shoulders
lay
Uncurl'd
,
alas
!
because
they
half
were
Gray
;
No
magick
Baths
employ
her
skilful
Hand
,
But
useless
Phials
on
her
Table
stand
:
She
slights
her
Form
,
no
more
by
Youth
inspir'd
,
And
loaths
that
Idol
which
she
once
admir'd
.
At
length
all
trembling
,
of
herself
afraid
,
To
her
lov'd
Glass
repair'd
the
weeping
Maid
,
And
with
a
Sigh
address'd
the
alter'd
Shade
.
Say
,
what
art
thou
,
that
wear'st
a
gloomy
Form
,
With
low'ring
Forehead
,
like
a
northern
Storm
;
Cheeks
pale
and
hollow
,
as
the
Face
of
Woe
,
And
Lips
that
with
no
gay
Vermilion
glow
?
Where
is
that
Form
which
this
false
Mirror
told
Bloom'd
like
the
Morn
,
and
shou'd
for
Ages
hold
;
But
now
a
Spectre
in
its
room
appears
,
All
scar'd
with
Furrows
,
and
defac'd
with
Tears
;
Say
,
com'st
thou
from
the
Regions
of
Despair
,
To
shake
my
Senses
with
a
meagre
Stare
?
Some
stragg'ling
Horror
may
thy
Phantom
be
,
But
surely
not
the
mimick
Shape
of
me
.
Ah
!
yes
—
the
Shade
its
mourning
Visage
rears
,
Pants
when
I
sigh
,
and
answers
to
my
Tears
:
Now
who
shall
bow
before
this
wither'd
Shrine
,
This
Mortal
Image
,
that
was
late
Divine
?
What
Victim
now
will
praise
these
faded
Eyes
,
Once
the
gay
Basis
for
a
thousand
Lyes
?
Deceitful
Beauty
—
false
as
thou
art
gay
,
And
is
it
thus
thy
Vot'ries
find
their
Pay
;
This
the
Reward
of
many
careful
Years
,
Of
Morning
Labours
,
and
of
Noon-day
Fears
,
The
Gloves
anointed
,
and
the
bathing
Hour
,
And
soft
Cosmetick's
more
prevailing
Pow'r
;
Yet
to
thy
Worship
still
the
fair
Ones
run
,
And
hail
thy
Temples
with
the
rising
Sun
;
Still
the
brown
Damsels
to
thy
Altars
pay
Sweet-scented
Unguents
,
and
the
Dews
of
May
;
Sempronia
smooths
her
wrinkled
Brows
with
Care
,
And
Isabella
curls
her
grisled
Hair
:
See
poor
Augusta
of
her
Glass
afraid
,
Who
even
trembles
at
the
Name
of
Maid
,
Spreads
the
fine
Mechlin
on
her
shaking
Head
,
While
her
thin
Cheeks
disown
the
mimick
Red
.
Soft
Silvia
,
who
no
Lover's
Breast
alarms
,
Yet
simpers
out
the
Ev'ning
of
her
Charms
,
And
tho'
her
Cheek
can
boast
no
rosy
Dye
,
Her
gay
Brocades
allure
the
gazing
Eye
.
But
hear
,
my
Sisters
—
Hear
an
ancient
Maid
,
Too
long
by
Folly
,
and
her
Arts
betray'd
;
From
these
light
Trifles
turn
your
partial
Eyes
,
'Tis
sad
Dorinda
prays
you
to
be
wise
;
And
thou
Celinda
,
thou
must
shortly
feel
The
sad
Effect
of
Time's
revolving
Wheel
;
Thy
Spring
is
past
,
thy
Summer
Sun
declin'd
,
See
Autumn
next
,
and
Winter
stalks
behind
:
But
let
not
Reason
with
thy
Beauties
fly
,
Nor
place
thy
Merit
in
a
brilliant
Eye
;
'Tis
thine
to
charm
us
by
sublimer
ways
,
And
make
thy
Temper
,
like
thy
Features
,
please
:
And
thou
,
Sempronia
,
trudge
to
Morning
Pray'r
,
Nor
trim
thy
Eye-brows
with
so
nice
a
Care
;
Dear
Nymph
believe
—
'tis
true
,
as
you're
alive
,
Those
Temples
show
the
Marks
of
Fifty-five
.
Let
Isabel
unload
her
aking
Head
Of
twisted
Papers
,
and
of
binding
Lead
;
Let
sage
Augusta
now
,
without
a
Frown
,
Strip
those
gay
Ribbands
from
her
aged
Crown
;
Change
the
lac'd
Slipper
of
delicious
Hue
For
a
warm
Stocking
,
and
an
easy
Shoe
;
Guard
her
swell'd
Ancles
from
Rheumatick
Pain
,
And
from
her
Cheek
expunge
the
guilty
Stain
.
Wou'd
smiling
Silvia
lay
that
Hoop
aside
,
'Twou'd
snow
her
Prudence
,
not
betray
her
Pride
:
She
,
like
the
rest
,
had
once
her
flagrant
Day
,
But
now
she
twinkles
in
a
fainter
Ray
.
Those
youthful
Airs
set
off
their
Mistress
now
,
Just
as
the
Patch
adorns
her
Autumn
Brow
:
In
vain
her
Feet
in
sparkling
Laces
glow
,
Since
none
regard
her
Forehead
,
nor
her
Toe
.
Who
would
not
burst
with
Laughter
,
or
with
Spleen
,
At
Prudo
,
once
a
Beauty
,
as
I
ween
?
But
now
her
Features
wear
a
dusky
Hue
,
The
little
Loves
have
bid
her
Eyes
adieu
:
Yet
she
pursues
the
Pleasures
of
her
Prime
,
And
vain
Desires
,
not
subdu'd
by
Time
;
Thrusts
in
amongst
the
Frolick
and
the
Gay
,
But
shuts
her
Daughter
from
the
Beams
of
Day
:
The
Child
,
she
says
,
is
indolent
and
grave
,
And
tells
the
World
Ophelia
can't
behave
:
But
while
Ophelia
is
forbid
the
Room
,
Her
Mother
hobbles
in
a
Rigadoon
;
Or
to
the
Sound
of
melting
Musick
dies
,
And
in
their
Sockets
rolls
her
blinking
Eyes
;
Or
stuns
the
Audience
with
her
hideous
Squal
,
While
Scorn
and
Satire
whisper
through
the
Hall
.
Hear
this
,
ye
fair
Ones
,
that
survive
your
Charms
,
Nor
reach
at
Folly
with
your
aged
Arms
;
Thus
Pope
has
sung
,
thus
let
Dorinda
sing
;
"
Virtue
,
brave
Boys
,
—
'tis
Virtue
makes
a
King
:
"
Why
not
a
Queen
?
fair
Virtue
is
the
same
In
the
rough
Hero
,
and
the
smiling
Dame
:
Dorinda's
Soul
her
Beauties
shall
pursue
,
Tho'
late
I
see
her
,
and
embrace
her
too
:
Come
,
ye
blest
Graces
,
that
are
sure
to
please
,
The
Smile
of
Friendship
,
and
the
careless
Ease
;
The
Breast
of
Candour
,
the
relenting
Ear
,
The
Hand
of
Bounty
,
and
the
Heart
sincere
:
May
these
the
Twilight
of
my
Days
attend
,
And
may
that
Ev'ning
never
want
a
Friend
To
smooth
my
Passage
to
the
silent
Gloom
,
And
give
a
Tear
to
grace
the
mournful
Tomb
.