And ſend the Godly in a Pett, to pray.
A Nymph there is, that all thy Pow'r diſdains,
And thouſands more in equal Mirth maintains.
But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could ſpoil a Grace,
Or raiſe a Pimple on a beauteous Face,
Like Citron-Waters Matron's Cheeks inflame,
Or change Complexions at a loſing Game;
If e'er with airy Horns I planted Heads,
Or rumpled Petticoats, or tumbled Beds,
Or caus'd Suſpicion when no Soul was rude,
Or diſcompos'd the Head-dreſs of a Prude,
Or e'er to coſtive Lap-Dog gave Diſeaſe,
Which not the Tears of brighteſt Eyes could eaſe:
Hear me, and touch Belinda with Chagrin;
That ſingle Act gives half the World the Spleen.
Seems to reject him, tho' ſhe grants his Pray'r.