Fair Treſſes Man's Imperial Race inſnare,
And Beauty draws us with a ſingle Hair.
He ſaw, he wiſh'd, and to the Prize aſpir'd:
Reſolv'd to win, he meditates the way,
By Force to raviſh, or by Fraud betray;
For when Succeſs a Lover's Toil attends,
Few ask, if Fraud or Force attain'd his Ends.
Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry Pow'r ador'd,
But chiefly Love——to Love an Altar built,
Of twelve vaſt French Romances, neatly gilt.
There lay the Sword-knot Sylvia's Hands had ſown:
With Flavia's Busk that oft had rapp'd his own:
A Fan, a Garter, half a Pair of Gloves;
And all the Trophies of his former Loves.
With tender Billet-doux he lights the Pyre,
And breathes three am'rous Sighs to raiſe the Fire.
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The RAPE of the LOCK.