THE LADY's Looking-Glass, TO DRESS Herself by: OR, THE Whole ART OF CHARMING.  
By Mrs. BEHN.  
LONDON: Printed by W. Onley, for S. Briscoe. 1697.   

THE Lady's Looking-Glass, TO DRESS Herself by: OR, THE ART of Charming.  
HOW long, O charming Iris! shall I speak in vain of your adorable Beauty? You have been just, and believe I love you with a Passion perfectly tender and extreme; and yet you will not allow your Charms to be infinite. You must either accuse my Flames to be unreasonable, and that my Eyes and Heart are false Judges of Wit and Beauty; or allow, that you are the most perfect of your Sex. But instead of that, you always accuse of me Flattery, when I speak of your infinite Merit; and when I refer you to your Glass, you tell me, that flatters, as well as Damon; though one would imagine, that should be a good Witness for the Truth of what I say, and undeceive you of the Opinion of my Injustice. Look— and confirm yourself, that nothing can equal your Perfections. All the World says it, and you must doubt it no longer. O Iris! Will you dispute against the whole World?  
But since you have so long disinherited your own Glass, I have here presented you with one, which I know is very true; and having been made for you only, can serve only you. All other Glasses present all Objects, but this reflects only Iris; whenever you consult it, it will convince you; and tell you, how much Right I have done you, when I told you, you were the fairest Person that ever Nature made. When other Beauties look into it, it will speak to all the fair Ones; but let 'em do what they will, 'twill say nothing to their Advantage.  

Iris, to spare what you call flattery,  
Consult your Glass each Hour of the Day:  
'Twill tell you where your Charms and Beauties lie,  
And where your little wanton Grace's play:  
Where Love does revel in your Face and Eyes;  
What Look invites your Slaves, and what denies.   

Where all the Loves adorn you with such Care,  
Where dress your Smiles, where arm your lovely Eyes;  
Where deck the flowing Tresses of your Hair:  
How cause your Snowy Breasts to fall and rise:  
How this severe Glance makes the Lover die;  
How that, more soft, gives Immortality.   

Where you shall see, what 'tis enslaves the Soul;  
Where ev'ry Feature, ev'ry Look combines:  
When the adorning Air, o'er all the whole,  
To so much Wit, and so nice Virtue joins.  
Where the Belle Taille and Motion still afford  
Graces to be eternally adored.   
But I will be silent now, and let your Glass speak.  

THE Lady's Looking-Glass.  
DAmon, (O charming Iris!) has given me to you, that you may sometimes give yourself the Trouble, and me the Honour of Consulting me in the great and weighty Affairs of Beauty. I am, my adorable Mistress! a faithful Glass; and you ought to believe all I say to you.  

The Shape of IRIS.  
I Must begin with your Shape, and tell you, without Flattery, 'tis the finest in the World, and gives Love and Admiration to all that see you. Pray observe how free and easy it is, without Constraint, Stiffness, or Affectation; those mistaken Graces of the Fantastic, and the Formal; who give themselves Pain to show their Will to please; and whose Dressing makes the greatest part of its Fineness, when they are more obliged to the Tailor, than to Nature; who add, or diminish, as occasion serves, to form a Grace, where Heaven never gave it: And while they remain on this Wreck of Pride, they are eternally uneasy, without pleasing any Body. Iris, I have seen a Woman of your Acquaintance, who, having a greater Opinion of her own Person, than any Body else, has screwed her Body into so sine a Form (as she calls it) that she dares no more stir a Hand, lift up an Arm, or turn her Head aside, than if, for the Sin of such a Disorder, she were to be turned into a Pillar of Salt; the less stiff and fixed Statue of the two. Nay, she dares not speak or smile, lest she should put her Face out of that order she had set it in her Glass, when she last looked on herself: And is all over such a Lady Nice (excepting in her Conversation) that ever made a ridiculous Figure. And there are many Ladies more, but too much tainted with that nauseous Formality, that old-fashioned Vice: But Iris, the charming, the all-perfect Iris, has nothing in her whole Form, that is not free, natural, and easy; and whose every Motion cannot please extremely. and which has not given Damon a thousand Rivals.  

Damon. the Young, the Amorous, and the True;  
Who sighs incessantly for you:  
Whose whole Delight, now you are gone,  
Is to retire to Shades alone,  
And to the Echoes make his Moan.  
By purling Streams the wishing Youth is laid,  
Still sighing Iris! lovely charming Maid!  
See, in thy Absence, how thy Lover dies;  
While to his Sighs, the Echo still replies.   

Then with the Stream he holds Discourse:  
O thou that bend'st thy liquid force  
To lovely Tames! upon whose Shore  
The Maid resides, whom I adore!  
My Tears of Love upon thy Surface bear:  
And if upon thy Banks thou seest my Fair,  
In all thy sostest Murmurs sing,  
From Damon I this Present bring;  
My every Curl contains a Tear!  
Then at her Feet thy Tribute pay:  
But haste, O happy Stream! away;  
Lest charmed too much, thou shouldst for ever stay.   

And thou, O gentle, murmuring Breeze!  
That plays in Air, and wantoness with the Trees;  
On thy young Wings, where gilded Sunbeams play,  
To Iris my soft Sighs convey,  
Still as they rise, each Minute of the Day:  
But whisper gently in her Ear;  
Let not the ruder Winds thy Message hear,  
Nor ruffle one dear Curl of her bright Hair.  
Oh! touch her Cheeks with sacred Reverence,  
And stay not gazing on her lovely Eye!  
But if thou bearest her Rosy Breath from thence,  
'Tis Incense of that Excellence,  
That as thou mount'st, 'twill perfume all the Skies.    

IRIS 's Complexion.  
SAY what you will, I am confident, if you will confess your Heart, you are, every time you view yourself in me, surprised at the Beauty of your Complexion; and will secretly own, you never saw any thing so fair. I am not the first Glass, by a thousand, that has assured you of this. If you will not believe me, ask Damon; he tells it you every Day, but that Truth from him offends you; and because he loves too much, you think his Judgement too little; and since this is so perfect, that must be defective. But 'tis most certain, your Complexion is infinitely fine, your Skin soft and smooth, as polished Wax, or Ivory, extremely white and clear; though if any Body speaks but of your Beauty, an agreeable Blush casts itself all over your Face, and gives you a thousand new Graces.  

And then two Flowers, newly born,  
Shine in your Heavenly Face:  
The Rose, that blushes in the Morn,  
Usurps the lily's place:  
Sometimes the Lily does prevail,  
And makes the generous Crimson pale.    

IRIS 's Hair.  
OH, the beautiful Hair of Iris! It seems, as if Nature had crowned you with a great Quantity of lovely fair brown Hair, to make us know, that you were born to Rule; and to repair the Faults of Fortune, that has not given you a Diadem: And do not bewail the Want of that (so much your Merit's due) since Heaven has so gloriously recompensed you with what gains more admiring Slaves.  

Heaven for Sovereignty, has made your form:  
And you were more than for dull Empire born.  
O'er Hearts your Kingdom shall extend,  
Your vast Dominion know no end.  
Thither the Loves and Graces shall resort;  
To Iris make their Homage, and their Court.  
No envious Star, no common Fate,  
Did on my Iris Birthday wait;  
But all was happy, all was delicate.  
Here Fortune would inconstant be in vain:  
Iris, and Love, eternally shall reign.   
Love does not make less use of your Hair for new Conquests, than of all the rest of your Beauties that adorn you. If he takes our Hearts with your fine Eyes, it ties 'em fast with your Hair; and if it weaves a Chain, not easily broken. It is not of those sorts of Hair, whose harshness discovers ill Nature; nor of those, whose Softness shows us the Weakness of the Mind: Not that either of these are Arguments without Exception; but 'tis such as bears the Character of a perfect Mind, and a delicate Wit; and for its Colour, the most faithful, discreet, and beautiful in the World; such as shows a Complexion and Constitution, neither so cold, to be insensible; nor so hot, to have too much Fire; that is, neither too white, nor too black; but such a mixture of the two Colours, as makes it the most agreeable in the World.  

'Tis that which leads those captivated Hearts,  
That bleeding at your Feet do lie.  
'tis that the Obstinate converts,  
That dare the Power of Love deny.  
'Tis that which Damon so admires;  
Damon, who often tells you so.  
If from your Eyes Love takes his Fires,  
'Tis with your Hair he strings his Bow:  
Which touching but the feathered Da●●  
It never missed the destined Heart.    

IRIS 's Eyes.  
I Believe, my fair Mistress, I shall dazzle you with the Lustre of your own Eyes. They are the finest Blue in the World: They have all the Sweetness, that ever charmed the Heart; with a certain Languishment that's irresistible; and never any looked on 'em, that did not sigh after 'em. Believe me, Iris, they carry unavoidable Darts and Fires; and whoever expose themselves to their Dangers, pay for their Imprudence.  

Cold as my solid Crystal is,  
Hard and impenetrable too;  
Yet I am sensible of Bliss,  
When your charming Eyes I view  
Even by me, their Flames ●re felt;  
And at each Glance, I fear to melt.   

Ah, how pleasant are my Days!  
How my glorious Fate I bless!  
Mortals never knew my Joys,  
Nor Monarches guest my Happiness.  
Every Look that's soft and gay,  
Iris gives me every Day.   

Spite of her Virtue, and her Pride,  
Every Morning I am blest  
With what to Damon is denied;  
To view her when she is undressed.  
All her H●●ven of Beauty's shown  
To triumphing Me— alone.   

Scarce the prying Beams of Light,  
Or th' impatient God of Day,  
Are allowed so dear a Sight,  
Or dare profane her with a Ray;  
When she has appeared to me,  
Like Venus rising from the Sea.   

But Oh! I must those Charms conceal,  
All too Divine for vulgar Eyes:  
Should I my secret Joys reveal,  
Of sacred Trust I break the Ties;  
And Damon would with Envy die,  
Who hopes, one Day, to be as blest as I.   
Extravagant with my Joys, I have strayed beyond my Limits; for I was telling you of the wondrous Fineness of your Eyes; which no Mortal can resist, nor any Heart stand the force of their Charms; and the most difficult Conquests they gain, scarce cost'em the Expense of a Look. They are modest and tender, chaste and languishing. There you may take a View of the whole Soul, and see Wit and Good Nature (those two inseparable Virtues of the Mind) in an extraordinary Measure. In fine, you see all that fair Eyes can produce, to make themselves adored. And when they are angry, they strike an unresistable Awe upon the Soul: And those Severities, Damon wishes, may perpetually accompany them, during their Absence from him; for 'tis with such Eyes, he would have you receive all his Rivals.  

Keep, lovely Maid, the Softness in your Eyes;  
To flatter Damon with another Day:  
When at your Feet the ravished Lover lies,  
Then put on all that's tender, all that's gay:  
And for the Griefs your Absence makes him prove;  
Give him the softest, dearest Looks of Love.   

His trembling Heart with sweetest Smiles caress,  
And in your Eyes, soft Wishes let him find;  
That your Regret of Absence may confess,  
In which, no Sense of Pleasure you could find:  
And to restore him, let your faithful Eyes  
Declare, that all his Rivals you despise.    

The Mouth of IRIS.  
I Perceive your Modesty would impose Silence on me: But, O fair Iris! Do not think to present yourself before a Glass, if you would not have it tell you all your Beauties: Content yourself, that I only speak of 'em, En Passant; for should I speak what I would, I should dwell all Day upon each particular, and still say something new. Give me Liberty then to speak of your fine Mouth: You need only open it a little, and you will see the most delicate Teeth, that ever you beheld; the whitest, and the best set. Your Lips are the finest in the World; so round, so soft, so plump, so dimpled, and of the loveliest Colour. And when you smile, Oh! What Imagination can conceive how sweet it is, that has not seen you Smiling? I cannot describe what I so admire; and 'tis in vain to those, who have not seen Iris.  

O Iris! boast that one peculiar Charm,  
That has so many Conquests made;  
So innocent, yet capable of harm;  
So just itself, yet has so oft betrayed  
Where a thousand Graces dwell,  
And wanton round in every Smile.   

A thousand Loves do listen when you speak,  
And catch each Accent as it flies:  
Rich flowing Wit, when e'er you Silence break,  
Flows from your Tongue, and sparkles in your Eyes.  
Whether you talk, or silent are;  
Your Lips immortal Beauties were.    

The Neck of IRIS.  
ALL your Modesty, all your nice Care, cannot hide the ravishing Beauties of your Neck; we must see it, Coy as you are; and see it the whitest, and finest shaped, that ever was formed. Oh! Why will you cover it? You know, all handsome things would be seen. And Oh! how often have you made your Lovers envy your Scarf, or any thing that hides so fine an Object from their sight. Damon himself complains of your too nice Severity. Pray do not hide it so carefully. See how perfectly turned it is; with small blue Veins, wand'ring and ranging here and there, like little Rivulets, that wanton o'er the flowery Meads. See how the round white rising Breasts heave with every Breath, as if they disdained to be confined to a Covering; and repel the malicious Cloud, that would obscure their Brightness.  

Fain I would have leave to tell  
The Charms that on your Bosom dwell;  
Describe it like some flowery Field,  
That does ten thousand Pleasures yield;  
A thousand gliding Springs and Groves;  
All Receptacles for Loves.  
But Oh! what Iris hides, must be  
Ever sacred kept by m●.    

The Arms and Hands of IRIS.  
I Shall not be put to much trouble to show you your Hands and Arms, because you may view them without my help; and you are very unjust, if you have not admired 'em a Thousand times. The beautiful Colour and Proportion of your Arm is unimitable, and your Hand is dazzling, fine, small, and plump; long-pointed Fingers, delicately turned; dimpled on the Snowy outside, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft Palm. O Iris! Nothing equals your fair Hand; that Hand, of which Love so often makes such use to draw his Bow, when he would send the Arrow home with more success; and which irresistibly wounds those, who possibly, have not yet seen your Eyes: And when you have been veiled, that lovely Hand has gained you a thousand Adorers. And I have heard Damon say, Without the Aid of more Beauties, that alone had been sufficient to have made an absolute Conquest o'er his Soul. And he has often vowed, It never touched him, but it made his Blood run with little irregular Motions in his Veins; his Breath beat short and double; his Blushes rise, and his very Soul dance.  

Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize,  
'Bove any one peculiar Grace,  
While he is dying for the Eyes,  
And doting on the lovely Face.  
The Unconsid'ring little knows,  
How much he to this Beauty owes.   

That when the Lover absent is,  
Informs him of his Mistress Heart.  
'Tis that, which gives him all his Bliss,  
When dear Love-Secrets 'twill impart.  
That plights the Faith the Maid bestows:  
And that confirms the timorous Vows.   

'Tis that betrays the Tenderness,  
Which the too bashful Tongue denies.  
'Tis that, that does the Heart confess,  
And spares the Language of the Eyes.  
'Tis that, which Treasures gives so vast:  
Even Iris 'twill to Damon give at last.    

The Grace and Air of IRIS.  
'TIS I alone, O charming Maid! that can show you that noble part of your Beauty: That generous Air, that adorns all your lovely Person, and renders every Motion and Action perfectly adorable. With what a Grace you walk!— How free, how easy, and how unaffected! See how you move;— for only here you can see it. Damon has told you a thousand times, that never any Mortal had so glorious an Air; but he could not half describe it, nor would you credit even what he said; but with a careless Smile, pass it off for the Flattery of a Lover. But here behold, and be convinced; and know, no part of your Beauty can charm more than this. O Iris, confess, Love has adorned you with all his Art and Care. Your Beauties are the Themes of all the Muses; who tell you in daily Songs, that the Graces themselves have not more than Iris. And one may truly say, that you alone know how to join the Ornaments and Dress, with Beauty; and you are still adorned, as if that Shape and Air had a peculiar Art to make all things appear gay and fine. Oh, how well dressed you are! How every thing becomes you! Never singular, never gaudy; but always suiting with your Quality.  

Oh, how that Negligence becomes your Air!  
That careless flowing of your Hair,  
That plays about with wanton Grace,  
With every Motion of your Face:  
Disdaining all that dull Formality,  
That dares not move the Lip, or Eye;  
But at some fancied Grace's cost;  
And think, with it, at least, a Lover lost.  
But the unlucky Minute to reclaim,  
And ease the Coquet of her Pain,  
The Pocket-Glass adjusts the Face again:  
Re-sets the Mouth, and languishes the Eyes;  
And thinks, the Spark that ogles that way— dies.   

Of Iris learn, O ye mistaken Fair!  
To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air.  
Let easy Nature all the Business do;  
She can the softer Graces show:  
Which Art but turns to Ridicule;  
And where there's none, serves but to show the Fool.  
In Iris you all Graces find;  
Charms without Art, a Motion unconfined;  
Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks;  
And without Affectation, moves and walks.  
Beauty's so perfect ne'er were seen:  
O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by Iris Mien.    

The Discretion of IRIS.  
BUT O Iris! The Beauties of the Body are imperfect, if the Beauties of the Soul do not advance themselves to an equal height. But, O Iris! What Mortal is there so damned to Malice, that does not, with Adoration, confess, that you (O charming Maid!) have an equal Portion of all the Braveries and Virtues of the Mind? And, who is it, that confesses your Beauty, that does not, at the same time acknowledge and bow to your Wisdom? The whole World admires both in you; and all, with impatience, ask, Which of the two is most surprising, your Beauty, or your Discretion? But we dispute in vain on that excellent Subject; for after all, 'tis determined, that the two Charms are equal. 'Tis none of those idle Discretions that consists in Words alone, and ever takes the Shadow of Reason for the Substance; and that makes use of all the little Artifices of Subtilty, and florid Talking, to make the outside of the Argument appear fine, and leave the inside wholly misunderstood: Who runs away with Words, and never thinks of Sense. But you, O lovely Maid! never make use of these affected Arts; but without being too brisk, or too severe; too silent, or too talkative; you aspire in all your Hearers, a Joy, and a Respect. Your Soul is an Enemy to that usual Vice of your Sex, of using little Arguments against the Fair; or by a Word, or Jest, make yourself and Hearers pleasant, at the Expense of the Fame of others.  
Your Heart is an Enemy to all Passions, but that of Love. And this is one of your noble Maxims: That every one ought to love, in some part of his Life: And that, in a Heart truly brave, Love is without Folly: That Wisdom is a Friend to Love, and Love to perfect Wisdom. Since these Maxims are your own, do not, O charming Iris! resist that noble Passion: And since Damon is the most tender of all your Lovers, answer his Passion with a noble Ardour: Your Prudence never fails in the Choice of your Friends; and in choosing so well your Lover, you will stand an eternal Precedent to all unreasonable fair Ones.  

O thou that dost excel in Wit and Youth!  
Be still a Precedent for Love and Truth.  
Let the dull World say what it will,  
A noble Flame's unblameable.  
Where a fine Sent'ment, and soft Passion rules,  
They scorn the Censure of the Fools.  
Yield, Iris, then; Oh, yield to Love!  
Redeem your dying Slave from pain:  
The World your Conduct must approve:  
Your Prudence never acts in vain.    

The Goodness and Complaisance of Iris.  
WHO but your Lovers (fair Iris!) doubts, but you are the most complaisant Person in the World: And that with so much Sweetness you oblige all, that you command in yielding; and as you gain the Heart of both Sexes, with the Affability of your noble Temper; so all are proud and vain of obliging you. And Iris, you may live assured, that your Empire is eternally established, by your Beauty, and your Goodness: Your Power is confirmed, and you grow in Strength every Minute: Your Goodness gets you Friends, and your Beauty Lovers.  
This Goodness is not one of those, whose Folly renders it easy to every Desirer; but a pure Effect of the Generosity of your Soul; such as Prudence alone manages, according to the Merit of the Person, to whom it is extended; and those whom you esteem, receive the sweet Marks of it; and only your Lovers complain: Yet even than you charm. And though sometimes you can be a little disturbed, yet through your Anger, your Goodness shines; and you are but too much afraid, that that may bear a false Interpretation: For oftentimes Scandal makes that pass for an Effect of Love, which is purely that of Complaisance.  
Never had any Body more Tenderness for their Friends, than Iris: Their Presence gives her Joy; their Absence, Trouble; and when she cannot see them, the finds no Pleasure, like speaking of them obligingly. Friendship reigns in your Heart, and Sincerity on your Tongue. Your Friendship is so strong, so constant, and so tender, that it charms, pleases, and satisfies all, that are not your Adorers. 'Tis therefore, Damon is excusable, if he be not contented with your noble Friendship alone; for he is the most tender of that Number.  

No! Give me all, th' impatient Lover cries;  
Without your Soul, I cannot live:  
Dull Friendship cannot mine suffice,  
That dies for all you have to give.  
The Smiles, the Vows, the Heart must all be mine:  
I cannot spare one Thought, or Wish of thine.   

I sigh, I languish all the Day;  
Each Minute ushers in my Groans:  
To ev'ry God in vain I pray;  
In ev'ry Grove repeat my Moans.  
Still Iris Charms are all my Sorrows Themes!  
They pain me Waking, and they wreck in Dreams.   

Return, fair Iris! Oh, return!  
Lest sighing long, your Slave destroys.  
I wish, I rave, I faint, I burn;  
Restore me quickly all my Joys:  
Your Mercy else, will come too late.  
Distance in Love more cruel is, than Hate.    

The Wit of Iris.  
YOU are deceived in me, fair Iris, if you take me for one of those ordinary Glasses, that represent the Beauty only of the Body; I remark to you also the Beauties of the Soul: And all about you declares yours the finest that ever was form; that you have a Wit that surprises, and is always new: 'Tis none of those that loses its Lustre, when one considers it; the more we examine yours, the more adorable we find it. You say nothing, that is not at once agreeable and solid; 'tis always quick and ready, without Impertinence, that little Vanity of the Fair; who, when they know they have Wit, rarely manage it so, as not to abound in Talking; and think, that all they say must please, because luckily, they sometimes chance to do so. But Iris never speaks, but 'tis of use; and gives a Pleasure to all that hears her. She has the perfect Art of penetrating, even the most secret Thoughts. How often have you known, without being told, all that has passed in Damon's Heart? For all great Wits are Prophets too:  

Tell me; Oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess;  
For you alone can tell my Love's Success.  
The Lines in my dejected Face,  
I fear, will lead you to no kind Result:  
It is your own, that you must trace;  
Those of your Heart you must consult.  
'Tis there, my Fortune I must learn,  
And all that Damon does concern.   

I tell you, that I love a Maid,  
As bright as Heaven, of Angel-hue:  
The softest, Nature ever made:  
Whom I, with Sighs and Vows, pursue.  
Oh, tell me, charming Prophetess!  
Shall I this lovely Maid possess?   

A thousand Rivals do obstruct my Way;  
A thousand Fears they do create:  
They throng about her all the Day,  
Whilst I at awful Distance wait.  
Say, will the lovely Maid so fickle prove,  
To give my Rivals Hope, as well as Love?   

She has a thousand Charms of Wit,  
With all the Beauty Heaven e'er gave:  
Oh! Let her not make use of it,  
To flatter me into the Slave.  
Oh! Tell me Truth, to ease my Pain:  
Say rather, I shall die by her Disdain.    

The Modesty of Iris.  
I Perceive, fair Iris, you have a Mind to tell me, I have entertained you too long, with a Discourse on yourself. I know, your Modesty makes this Declaration an offence, and you suffer me, with Pain, to unveil those Treasures you would hide. Your Modesty, that so commendable a Virtue in the Fair, and so peculiar to you, is here a little too severe: Did I flatter you, you should blush: Did I seek, by praising you, to show an Art of Speaking finely, you might chide. But, O Iris! I say nothing, but such plain Truths, as all the World can witness are so. And so far I am from Flattery, that I seek no Ornament of Words. Why do you take such Care to conceal your Virtues? They have too much Lustre, not to be seen, in spite of all your Modesty: Your Wit, your Youth, and Reason oppose themselves, against this dull Obstructer of our Happiness. Abate, O Iris, a little of this Virtue, since you have so many other, to defend yourself against the Attacks of your Adorers.  
You yourself have the least Opinion of your own Charms: And being the only Person in the World, that is not in love with 'em, you hate to pass whole Hours before your Looking-Glass; and to pass your time, like most of the idle Fair, in dressing, and setting off those Beauties, which need so little Art. You, more wise, disdain to give those Hours to the Fatigue of Dressing, which you know so well how to employ a thousand Ways. The Muses have blest you, above your Sex; and you know how to gain a Conquest with your Pen, more absolutely, than all the industrious Fair, who trust to Dress and Equipage.  
I have a thousand things to tell you more, but willingly resign my place to Damon, that faithful Lover; he will speak more ardently than I: For, let a Glass use all its Force, yet, when it speaks its best, it speaks but coldly.  
If my Glass, O charming Iris! have the good Fortune (which I could never entirely boast) to be believed, 'twill serve, at least, to convince you, I have not been so guilty of Flattery, as I have a thousand times been charged. Since than my Passion is equal to your Beauty (without Comparison, or End) believe, O lovely Maid! how I sigh in your Absence: And be persuaded to lessen my pain, and restore me to my Joys; for there is no Torment so great, as the Absence of a Lover from his Mistress; of which, this is the Idea.  

The Effects of Absence from what we love.  
Thou one continued Sigh! all over Pain!  
Eternal Wish! but wish, alas, in vain!  
Thou languishing, impatient Hoper on;  
A busy Toiler, and yet still undone!  
A breaking Glimpse of distant Day,  
Enticing on, and leading more astray.  
Thou Joy in Prospect, future Bliss extreme;  
But ne'er to be possessed; but in á Dream.  
Thou fabulous Goddess, which the ravished Boy,  
In happy Slumbers proudly did enjoy:  
But waking found an Airy Cloud he pressed;  
His Arms came empty to his panting Breast.  
Thou Shade, that only haunts the Soul by Night;  
And when thou shouldst inform, thou fliest the Sight.  
Thou false Idea of the thinking Brain,  
That labours for the charming Form in vain;  
Which if by Chance it catch, thou'rt lost again.     
The End of the Looking-Glass.