Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring:
Think what an Equipage thou haſt in Air,
And view with ſcorn Two Pages and a Chair.
As how your own, our Beings were of old,
And once inclos'd in Woman's beauteous Mold;
Thence, by a ſoft Tranſition, we repair
From earthly Vehicles to theſe of Air.
Think not, when Woman's tranſient Breath is fled,
That all her Vanities at once are dead:
Succeeding Vanities ſhe ſtill regards,
And tho' ſhe plays no more, o'erlooks the Cards.
Her Joy in gilded Chariots, when alive,
And Love of Ombre, after Death ſurvive.
For when the Fair in all their Pride expire,
To their firſt Elements the Souls retire:
The Sprights of fiery Termagants in Flame
Mount up, and take a Salamander's Name.
Soft yielding Minds to Water glide away,
And ſip with Nymphs, their Elemental Tea.
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The RAPE of the LOCK.