Licenced,  
Aug. 2. 1686. R.L.S.   

LA MONTREVILE: OR THE Lover's Watch.  
By Mrs. A. Behn.  
LONDON, Printed by R. H. for W. Canning, at his Shop in Vine-Court, Middle-Temple. 1686.   

TO PETER WESTON, Esq OF THE Honourable Society OF THE INNER-TEMPLE.  
SIR,  
WHen I had ended this little unlaboured Piece, the Watch, Iresolved to dedicate it to some One, whom I could fancy, the nearest approached the charming Damon. Many fine Gentlemen I had in view, of Wit and Beauty; but still, through their Education, or a natural Propensity to Debauchery, I found those Virtues wanting, that should complete that delicate Character, Iris gives her Lover; and which, at first Thought of You, I found centred there to Perfection.  
Yes Sir, I found You had all the Youth of Damon; without the forward noisy Confidence, which usually attends your Sex. You have all the attracting Beauty of my young Hero; all that can charm the Fair; without the Affectation of those, that set out for Conquests (though You make a Thousand, without knowing it, or the Vanity of believing it.) You have our Damon's Wit, with all his agreeable Modesty: Two Virtues that rarely shine together: And the last makes You conceal the noble Sallies of the first, with that Industry and Care, You would an Amour: And You would no more boast of either of these, than of your undoubted Bravery.  
You are (like our Lover too) so discreet, that the bashful Maid may, without Fear or Blushing, venture the soft Confession of her Soul with You; reposing the dear Secret in Yours, with more Safety, than with her own Thoughts. You have all the Sweetness of Youth, with the Sobriety and Prudence of Age. You have all the Power of the gay Vices of Man; but the Angel in your Mind, has subdued you to the Virtues of a God And all the vicious, and industrious Examples of the roving Wits of the mad Town, have only served to give you the greater Abborrence to Lewdness. And You look down with Contempt and Pity on that wretched unthinking Number, who pride themselves in their mean Victories over little Hearts; and boast their common Prizes with that Vanity, that declares 'em capable of no higher Joy, than that of the Ruin of some credulous Unfortunate: And no Glory like that, of the Discovery of the brave Atchieument, over the next Bottle, to the Fool that shall applaud 'em.  
How does the Generosity, and Sweetness of your Disposition despise these false Entertainments, that turns the noble Passion of Love into Ridicule, and Man into Brute.  
Methinks I could form another Watch (that should remain a Pattern to succeeding Ages) how divinely you pass your more sacred Hours, how nobly and usefully you divide your Time; in which, no precious Minute is lost, not one glides idly by; but all turns to wondrous Account. And all Your Life is one continued Course of Virtue and Honour. Happy the Parents, that have the Glory to own You! Happy the Man, that has the Honour of your Friendship! But, Oh! How much more happy the fair She, for whom you shall sigh! Which surely, can never be in vain. There will be such a Purity in Your Flame: All You ask, will be so chaste and noble, and utlered with a Voice so modest, and a Look so charming, as must, by a gentle Force, compel that Heart to yield, that knows the true Value of Wit, Beauty, and Virtue.  
Since then, in all the Excellencies of Mind and Body (where no one Grace is wanting) you so resemble the All-perfect Damon, suffer me to dedicate this Watch to You. It brings You nothing but Rules for Love; delicate as Your Thoughts, and innocent as Your Conversation. And possibly, 'tis the only Virtue of the Mind, You are not perfectly Master of; the only noble Mystery of the Soul, You have not yet studied. And though they are Rules for every Hour, You will find, they will neither rob Heaven, nor Your Friends of their Due; those so valuable Devoirs of Your Life: They will teach You Love; but Love, so pure, and so devout, that You may mix it, even with Your Religion; and I know, Your fine Mind can admit of no other. When ever the God enters there (fond and wanton as he is, full of Arts and Guiles) he will be reduced to that Native Innocency, that made him so adored, before inconstant Man corrupted his Divinity, and made him wild and wand'ring. How happy will Iris' Watch be, to inspire such a Heart! How honoured under the Patronage of so excellent a Man! Whose Wit will credit, whose Goodness will defend it; and whose noble and virtuous Qualities so justly merit the Character, Iris has given Damon: And which is believed so very much your Due, by  
SIR, Your most Obliged, and Most Humble Servant, A. Behn.   

To the Admired Astrea.  

I Never mourned my Want of Wit, till now;  
That where I do so much Devotion vow,  
Brightest Astrea, to your honoured Name,  
Find my Endeavour will become my Shame.  
'Tis you alone, who have the Art, and Wit  
T'involve those Praises in the Lines y'have writ,  
That we should give you, could we have the Spirit,  
Vigour, and Force, wherewith yourself do write.  
Too mean are all th'Applauses we can give:  
You in yourself, and by yourself, shall live;  
When all we write will only serve to show,  
How much, in vain Attempt, we flag below.  
Some Hands write some things well; are elsewhere lame:  
But on all Themes, your Power is the same.  
Of Buskin, and of Sock, you know the Pace;  
And tread in both, with equal Skill and Grace.  
But when you write of Love, Astrea, than  
Love dips his Arrows, where you wet your Pen.  
Such charming Lines did never Paper grace;  
Soft, as your Sex; and smooth, as Beauty's Face.  
And 'tis your Province, that belongs to you:  
Men are so rude, they fright when they would sue.  
You teach us gentler Methods; such as are  
The fit and due Proceedings with the Fair.   

But why should you, who can so well create,  
So stoop, as but pretend, you do translate?  
Could you, who have such a luxuriant Vein,  
As nought but your own Judgement could restrain;  
Who are, yourself, of Poesy the Soul,  
And whose brave Fancy knocks at either Pole;  
Descend so low, as poor Translation,  
To make an Author, that before was none?  
Oh! Give us, henceforth, what is all your own!  
Yet we can trace you here, in every Line;  
The Texture's good, but some Threads are too fine:  
We see where you let in your Silver Springs;  
And know the Plumes, with which you imp his Wings.   

But I'm too bold to question what you do,  
And yet it is my Zeal that makes me so.  
Which, in a Lover, you'll not disapprove:  
I am too dull to write, but I can love.   Charles Cotton.  

To the Incomparable Author.  

WHile this poor Homage of our Verse we give,  
We own, at least, your just Prerogative:  
And tho' the Tribute's needless, which we pay;  
It serves to show, you reign, and we obey.  
Which, adding nothing to your perfect Store,  
Yet makes your polished Numbers shine the more:  
As Gems in Foils, are with Advantage shown;  
No Lustre take from them, but more exert their own.   

Male Wits, from Authors of a former Date,  
Copy Applause; and but at best, translate:  
While you, like the immortal Powers, Create.  
Horace and Pindar (tho' attempted long  
In vain) at last, have learned the British Tongue;  
Not so the Grecian Female Poet's Song.  
The Pride of Greece we now outrivalled see:  
Greece boasts one Sapph; two Orinda's, we.   

But what unheard Applause shall we impart  
To this most new, and happy piece of Art?  
That renders our Apollo more sublime  
In numerous Prose, but yet more numerous Rhyme;  
And makes the God of Love, the God of Time.  
Love's wand'ring Planet, you have made a Star:  
'Twas bright before, but now 'tis Regular.  
While Love shall last, this Engine needs must vend:  
Each Nymph, this Watch shall to her Lover send,  
That points him out his Hours, and how those Hours to spend.   N. Tate.  

To the most Ingenious Astrea, upon her Book entitled, La Môntre, or the Lover's Watch.  
To celebrate your Praise, no Muse can crown  
You with that Glory, as this Piece hath done.  
This Lover's Watch, tho' it was made in France,  
By the famed Bonnecorse; yet you advance  
The Value of its curious Work so far,  
That as it shined there like a glittering Star,  
Yet here a Constellation it appears;  
And in Love's Orb, with more Applause, it wears  
Astrea's Name. Your Prose so delicate,  
Your Verse so smooth and sweet, that they create  
A lovely Wonder in each Lover's Mind:  
The envious Critic dares not be unkind.  
La Môntre cannot err, 'tis set so well:  
The Rules for Lovers Hours are like a Spell  
To charm a Mistress with: The God of Love  
Is highly pleased; and smiling, does approve  
Of this rare Master piece: His Amorous Game  
Will more improve: This will support his Fame.  
May your luxuriant Fancy ever flow  
Like a Spring tide; no Bounds, or Limits know.  
May you, in Story, for your Wit, live high:  
And summoned hence, to blessed Eternity,  
Aged with Nestor's Years, resign to Fate;  
May your famed Works receive an endless Date.  Rich. Foerrar.  

To the Divine Astrea, on her Môntre.  
Thou Wonder of thy Sex! Thou greatest Good!  
The Age's Glory, if but understood.  
How are the Britain's bound to bless the Name  
Of great Astrea! Whose Eternal Fame,  
To Foreign Climbs, is most deservedly spread;  
Where Thou, in thy great Works, shalt live, tho' dead.  
And mighty France, with Envy shall look on,  
To see her greatest Wit by thee outdone:  
And all their boasted Trophies are in vain,  
Whilst thou, spite of their Salic Law, shalt reign.  
Witness La Montrevile, from their Rubbish raised:  
A Piece, for which, thou shalt be ever praised.  
The beauteous Work is with such Order laid,  
And all the Movement so divinely made,  
As cannot of dull Critics be afraid.  
Such Nature in the Truths of Love thou'st showed,  
As the All-loving Ovid never could.  
Thy Rules so soft, so modest, and so right,  
The listening Youths will follow with Delight:  
To thy blessed Name will all their Homage pay,  
Who taught 'em how to love the noblest Way.  G. J.  

To his admired Friend, the most ingenious Author.  

ONce more my Muse is blest; her humble Voice  
Does in thy wondrous Works, once more, rejoice.  
Not the bright Mount, where every sacred Tongue,  
In skilful Choirs, immortal Numbers sung.  
Not great Apollo's own inspiring Beams,  
Nor sweet Castalia's consecrated Streams,  
To thy learned Sitters could so charming be,  
As are thy Songs, and thou thyself, to me.  
Aethereal Air, soft Springs, and verdant Fields  
Cool Shades, and Sunny Banks, thy Presence yields.  
Never were Soul and Body better joined:  
A Mansion, worthy so divine a Mind!  
No wonder every Swain adores thy Name,  
And every Tongue proclaims thy Deathless Fame:  
For who can such refistless Power control,  
Where Wit and Beauty both invade the Soul?  
Beauty, that still does her fresh Conquests find;  
And Sacred Wit, that ever charms the Mind:  
Through all its Forms, that lovely Proteus chase;  
And every Shape has its peculiar Grace.  
Hail, Thou heaven-born! Thou most transcendent Good!  
If Mortals their chief Blessings understood!  
Thou that, while Kingdoms, Thrones, and Powers decay,  
Hast, with Eternity, one constant Stay:  
Liust, and will live, like the great God of Love;  
For ever young, although as old as Jove.  
While we, alas! in dark Oblivion lie,  
Thou ne er wilt let thy loved Astrea die.  
No, my good Friend, Thy Works will mount, the Skies,  
And see their Author's learned Ashes rise.   

Much to the Fame of thy fair Sex of Old,  
By skilful Writers, has been greatly told:  
But'all the boasted Titles they have gained  
By others Labours, weakly are sustained;  
While thou look'st down, and scornest so mean a Praise:  
Thy own just Hands do thy own Trophies raise.   

Rich is the Soil, and vast thy Native Store;  
Yet Thou (Wit's Great Columbus) seekest out more.  
Through distant Regions spread'st thy Towering Wings,  
And Foreign Treasure to thy Country brings.  
This Work let no Censorious Tongue despise,  
And judge thee wealthy with unlawful Prize.  
We owe to thee, our best Refiner, more  
Than him, who first digged up the rugged Ore.   

Tho this vast Frame were from a Chaos raised,  
The great Creator should not less be praised:  
By its bright Form, his power's as much displayed,  
As if the World had been from Nothing made.  
And if we may compare great Things with Small,  
Thou therefore canst not by just Censure fall;  
While the rude Heap, which lay before unformed,  
To Life and Sense, is by thy Spirit warmed.   Geo. Jenkins.  


Hours of the Day    

La Monster.  

THE ARGUMENT.  
'TIs in the most Happy and August Court of the best and greatest Monarch of the World, that Damon, a young Nobleman, whom we will ●ender under that Name, languishes for a Maid of Quality, who will give us leave to call her Iris.  
Their Births are equally Illustrious: They are both Rich, and both Young: Their Beauty such, as I dare not too nicely particularise, lest I should discover (which I am not permitted to do) who these charming Lovers are. Let it suffice, that Iris is the most fair and accomplished Person that ever adorned a Court; and that Damon is only worthy of the Glory of her Favour; for he has all that can render him Lovely, in the fair Eyes of the Amiable Iris. Nor is he Master of those Superficial Beauties alone, that please at first Sight: He can charm the Soul with a thousand Arts of Wit and Gallantry. And, in a word, I may say, without flattering either, that there is no one Beauty, no one Grace, no Perfection of Mind and Body, that wants to complete a Victory on both sides.  
The Agreement of Age, Fortunes; Quality and Humours in the two fair Lovers, made the impatient Damon hope, that nothing would oppose his Passion; and if he saw himself every Hour, languishing for the Adorable Maid, he did not however despair: And if Iris sighed, it was not for fear of being one day more happy.  
In the midst of the Tranquillity of these two Lovers, Iris was obliged to go into the Country for some Months, whither 'twas impossible for Damon to wait on her, he being obliged to attend the King, his Master; and being the most Amorous of his Sex, suffered with extreme Impatienco the Absence of his Mistress. Nevertheless, he failed not to send to her every day, and gave up all his melancholy Hours to Thinking, Sighing, and Writing to her the softest Letters that Love could inspire. So that Iris even blessed that Absence, that gave her so tender and convincing Proofs of his Passion; and found this dear way of Conversing, even recompensed all her Sighs for his Absence.  
After a little Intercourse of this kind, Damon bethought himself to ask Iris a Discretion, which he had won of her, before she lest the Town; and in a Billet-doux to that purpose, pressed her very earnestly for it. Iris being infinitely pleased with his Importunity, suffered him to ask it often; and he never failed of doing so.  
But as I do not here design to relate the Adventures of these two Amiable Persons, nor give you all the Billet-douxes that past between them: You shall here find nothing but the Watch, this charming Maid sent her impatient Lover.   

Iris to Damon.  
IT must be confessed, Damon, that you are the most importuning Man in the World. Your Billets have an hundred times demanded a Discretion, which you won of me; and tell me, you will not wait my Return, to be paid. You are either a very faithless Creditor, or believe me very unjust, that you dun with such Impatience. But, to let you see I am a Maid of Honour, and value my Word, I will acquit myself of this Obligation I have to you, and send you a Watch of my fashion; perhaps you never saw any so good. It is not one of those, that have always something to be mended in it; but one that is without Fault, very just and good, and will remain so, as long as you continue to love me. But Damon, know, that the very Minute you cease to do so, the String will break, and it will go no more. 'Tis only useful in my Absence, and when I return, 'twill change its Motion: And though I have set it but for the Springtime, 'twill serve you the whole Year round; and 'twill be necessary only, that you alter the business of the Hours (which my Cupid, in the middle of my Watch, points you out) according to the length of the Days and Nights. Nor is the Dart of that little God directed to those Hours, so much to inform you how they pass, as how you ought to pass them, how you ought to employ those of your Absence from Iris. 'Tis there you shall find the whole Business of a Lover, from his Mistress; sor I have designed it a Rule to all your Actions. The Consideration of the Workman, aught to make you set a Value upon the Work: And though it be not an accomplished, and perfect Piece; yet Damon, you ought to be grateful, and esteem it, since I have made it for you alone. But however I may boast of the Design, I know, as well as I believe, you love me; that you will not suffer me to have the Glory of it wholly, but will say in your heart, 
That Love, the great Instructor of the Mind,  
That forms anew, and fashions every Soul,  
Refines the gross Defects of Humane kind;  
Humbles the Proud and Vain, inspires the Dull:  
Gives Cowards noble Heat in Fight,  
And teaches feeble Woman how to write.  
That doth the Universe command;  
Does from my Iris Heart direct her Hand.   
I give you the liberty to say this to your Heart, if you please: And that you may know, with what Justice you do so, I will confess in my turn,  

The Confession.  

That Love's my Conduct where I go,  
And Love instructs me all I do.  
Prudence no longer is my Guide,  
Nor take I Counsel of my Pride.  
In vain does Honour now invade,  
In vain does Reason take my part;  
If against Love it do persuade,  
If it rebel against my heart.   

If the soft Evening do invite,  
And I incline to take the Air,  
The Birds, the Spring, the Flowers no more delight;  
'Tis Love makes all the Pleasure there;  
Love, which about me still I bear.  
I'm charmed with what I thither bring,  
And add a Softness to the Spring.   

If for Devotion I design,  
Love meets me, even at the Shrine:  
In all my Worships, claims a part;  
And robs even Heaven of my Heart.  
All day does counsel and control,  
And all the night, employs my Soul.  
No wonder then, if all you think be true,  
That Love's concerned in all I do for you,    
And Damon, you know, that Love is no ill Master; and I must say, with a Blush, that he has found me no unapt Scholar; and he instructs too agreeably, not to succeed in all he undertakes.  

Who can resist his soft Commands?  
When he resolves, What God withstands?   
But I ought to explain to you my Watch.  
The naked Love which you will find in the middle of it, with his Wings clipped, to show you, he is fixed and constant, and will not fly away, points you out, with his Arrow, the four and twenty Hours, that compose the Day and the Night: Over every Hour, you will find written, what you ought to do, during its Course; and every Half-hour is marked with a Sigh, since the quality of a Lover is, to sigh day and night: Sighs are the Children of Lovers, that are born every hour. And that my Watch may always be just, Love himself ought to conduct it; and your Heart should keep Time with the Movement.  

My Presents delicate, and new,  
If by your Heart the Motion's set;  
According as that's false, or true,  
Tou'l find, my Watch will answer it.   
Every hour is tedious to a Lover, separated from his Mistress; and, to show you how good I am, I will have my Watch instruct you, to pass some of them without Inquietude; that the force of your Imagination, may sometimes charm the Trouble you have for my Absence.  

Perhaps I am mistaken here,  
My Heart may too much Credit give;  
But Damon, you can charm my Fear,  
And soon my Error undeceive.   
But I will not disturb my Repose at this time, with a Jealousy, which, I hope, is altogether frivolous and vain; but begin to instruct you in the Mysteries of my Watch. Cast then your Eyes upon the Eighth Hour in the Morning, which is the Hour I would have you begin to wake: You will find there written,  

8 A-Clock.  
Agreeable Reveree.  
DO not rise yet; you may find Thoughts agreeable enough, when you awake, to entertain you longer in Bed. And 'tis in that hour you ought to recollect all the Dreams you have had in the Night. If you have dreamed any thing to my Advantage, confirm yourself in that thought; but if to my Disadvantage, renounce it, and dis-own the injurious Dream. 'Tis in this Hour also, that I give you leave to reflect on all that I have ever said and done, that has been most obliging to you, and that gives you the most tender Sentiments.  

The Reflection.  

Remember Damon, while your Mind  
Reflect on things that charm and please,  
Tou give me Proofs that you are kind,  
And set my doubting Soul at ease:  
For when your Heart receives with Joy  
The thoughts of Favours which I give,  
My Smiles in vain I not employ,  
And on the Square we love and live.   

Think then on all I ever did,  
That e'er was charming, e'er was dear.  
Let nothing from that Soul be hid,  
Whose Griefs and Joys I feel and share.  
All that your Love and Faith have sought,  
All that your Vows and Sighs have bought,  
Now render present to your Thought.    
And for what's to come, I give you leave, Damon, to flatter yourself, and to expect, I shall still pursue those Methods, whose remembrance charms so well: But, if it be possible, conceive these kind Thoughts between Sleeping and Waking, that all my too forward Complaisance, my Goodness, and my Tenderness, which I confess to have for you, may pass for Half-Dreams; for 'tis most certain, 
That, though the Favours of the Fair  
Are ever to the Lover dear;  
Yet, lest he should reproach that easy Flame,  
That buys its Satisfaction with its Shame  
She ought but rarely to confess,  
How much she finds of Tenderness;  
Nicely to guard the yielding part,  
And hide the hard-kept Secret in her Heart.  For, let me tell you, Damon, though the Passion of a Woman of Honour be never so innocent, and the Lover never so discreet and honest; her Heart feels I know not what of Reproach within, at the Reflection of any Favours she has allowed him. For my part, I never call to mind the least soft, or kind Word I have spoken to Damon, without finding, at the same Instant, my Face covered over with Blushes, and my Heart with sensible Pain. I sigh at the Remembrance of every Touch I have stolen from his Hand, and have upbraided my Soul, which confesses so much guilty Love, as that secret desire of Touching him made appear. I am angry at the Discovery, though I am pleased at the same time, with the Satisfaction I take in doing so; and ever disordered at the remembrance of such Arguments of too much Love. And these unquiet Sentiments alone, are sufficient to persuade me, that our Sex cannot be reserved too much. And I have often, on these occasions, said to myself,  

The Reserve.  

Though Damon every Virtue have,  
With all that pleases in his Form,  
That can adorn the Just and Brave,  
That can the coldest Bosom warm;  
Though Wit and Honour there abound;  
Yet the Pursuer's ne'er pursued,  
And when my Weakness he has found,  
His Love will sink to Gratitude:  
While on the Ask Part he lives,  
'Tis she th'Obliger is, who giveth.   

And he that, at one throw, the Stake has won,  
Gives over Play, since all the Stock is gone.  
And what dull Gamester ventures certain Store  
With Losers, who can set no more.     

9 A-Clock.  
Design to please no body.  
I Should continue to accuse you of that Vice I have often done, that of Laziness, if you remained past this Hour in Bed; 'tis time for you to rise; my Watch tells you 'tis Nine a-Clock. Remember that I am absent, therefore do not take too much pains in dressing yourself, and setting your Person off.  

The Question.  

Tell me! What can he design,  
Who in his Mistress absence will be fine?  
Why does he cock, and comb, and dress?  
Why is the Cravat-string in print?  
What does th'embroidered Coat confess?  
Why to the Glass this long Address,  
If there be nothing in't?  
If no new Conquest is designed,  
If no new Beauty fill his Mind?   

Let Fools and Fops, whose Talents lie  
In being neat, in being spruce,  
Be dressed, be vain, and tawdery;  
With Men of Sense, 'tis out of use:  
The only Folly that Distinction sets  
Between the noisy fluttering Fools and Wits.   

Remember, Iris is away;  
And sighing, to your Valet cry,  
Spare your Perfumes and Care, to day  
I have no business to be gay,  
Since Iris is not by.  
I'll be all negligent in Dress,  
And scarce set off for Complaisance.  
Put me on nothing that may please,  
But only such as may give no Offence.    
Say to yourself, as you are dressing, Would it please Heaven, that I might see Iris to day! But Oh! 'tis impossible: Therefore all that I shall see, will be but indifferent Objects, since 'tis Iris only that I wish to see. And sighing, whisper to yourself,  

The Sigh.  
Ah! Charming Object of my wishing Thought!  
Ah! Soft Idea of a distant Bliss!  
That only art in Dreams and Fancy brought,  
To give short Intervals of Happiness.  
But when I waking, find thou absent art;  
And with thee, all that I adore,  
What Pains, what Anguish fills my Heart!  
What Sadness seizes me all over!  
All Entertainments I neglect,  
Since Iris is no longer there:  
Beauty scarce claims my bare Respect,  
Since in the Throng I sinned not her.  
Ah then! How vain it were to dress, and show,  
Since all I wish to please, is absent now!   
'Tis with these Thoughts, Damon, that your Mind ought to be employed, during your time of Dressing: And you are too knowing in Love, to be ignorant, 
That when a Lover ceases to be blest  
With the dear Object he desires,  
Ah! How indifferent are the rest!  
How soon their Conversationtires!  
Though they a thousand Arts to please invent,  
Their Charms are dull, their Wit impertinent.    

10 A-Clock.  
Reading of Letters.  
MY Cupid points you now to the Hour, in which you ought to retire into your Cabinet, having already past an Hour in Dressing; and for a Lover, who is sure not to appear before his Mistress, even that Hour is too much to be so employed. But I will think, you thought of nothing less than Dressing, while you were about it. Lose then no more Minutes, but open your Scrutore, and read over some of those Billets you have received from me. Oh! What Pleasures a Lover feels about his Heart, in reading those from a Mistress he entirely loves!  

The Joy.  

Who, but a Lover, can express  
The Joys, the Pants, the Tenderness,  
That the soft Amorous Soul invades,  
While the dear Billet-doux he reads?  
Raptures Divine the Heart overflow;  
Which he that loves not, cannot know.   

A thousand Tremble, thousand Fears,  
The short-breathed Sighs, the joyful Tears;  
The Transport, where the Love's confessed,  
The Change, where Coldness is expressed;  
The differing Flames the Lover burns,  
As those are shy, or kind, by Turns.    
However you find 'em, Damon, construe 'em all to my Advantage: Possibly, some of 'em have an Air of Coldness, something different from that Softness they are usually too amply filled with; but where you find they have, believe there, that Sense of Honour, and my Sex's Modesty, guided my Hand a little, against the Inclinations of my Heart; and that it was a kind of an Atonement, I believed, I ought to make, for something I feared, I had said too kind, and too obliging before: But wherever you find that, stop that Check in my Career of Love; you will be sure to find something that follows it to favour you, and deny that unwilling Imposition upon my Heart; which, lest you should mistake, Love shows himself in Smiles again, and flatters more agreeably, disdaining the Tyranny of Honour, and Rigid Custom, that Imposition on our Sex; and will, in spite of me, let you see, he Reigns absolutely in my Soul.  
The Reading my Billet-doux may detain you an Hour; I have had Goodness enough to write you enough to entertain you so long, at least, and sometimes reproach myself for it; but, contrary to all my Scruples, I find myself disposed to give you those frequent Marks of my Tenderness. If yours be so great as you express it, you ought to kiss my Letters a Thousand times, you ought to read them with Attention, and weigh every Word, and value every Line. A Lover may receive a Thousand endearing Words from a Mistress, more easily than a Billet. One says a great many kind Things of Course to a Lover, which one is not willing to write, or to give testified under one's Hand, Signed and Sealed. But when once a Lover has brought his Mistress to that degree of Love, he ought to assure himself, she loves not at the common Rate.  

Love's Witness.  

'Slight, unpremeditated Words are born,  
By every common Wind, into the Air;  
Carelessly uttered, die as soon as born,  
And in one Instant, give both Hope and Fear:  
Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind,  
According to the Caprice of the Mind.   

But Billets-doux are constant Witnesses,  
Substantial Records to Eternity;  
Just Evidences, who the Truth confess;  
On which, the Lover safely may rely:  
They're serious Thoughts, digested and resolved;  
And last, when Words are into Clouds devolved.    
I will not doubt, but you give Credit to all that is Kind in my Letters; and I will believe, you find a Satisfaction in the Entertainment they give you, and that the Hour of Reading 'em is not dis-agreeable to you. I could wish, your Pleasure might be Extreme, even to the Degree of suffering the Thought of my Absence not to diminish any Part of it. And I could wish too, at the End of your Reading, you would sigh with Pleasure, and say to yourself,— 

The Transport.  

O Iris! While you thus can charm,  
While at this Distance, you can wound and warm;  
My absent Torments I will bless and bear,  
That give me such dear Proofs, how kind you are.  
Present, the valued Store was only seen:  
Now I am rifling the bright Mass within.   

Every dear past, and happy Day,  
When Languishing at Iris Feet, I lay;  
When all my Prayers, and all my Tears could move  
No more than her Permission, I should love:  
Vain with my Glorious Destiny,  
I thought, beyond, scarce any Heaven could be.   

But, Charming Maid, now I am taught,  
That Absence has a thousand Joys to give,  
On which, the Lover, present, never thought,  
That recompense the Hours we grieve.  
Rather by Absence let me be undone,  
Than forfeit all the Pleasures that has won.     
With this little Rapture, I wish you would finish the Reading my Letters, shut your Scrutore, and quit your Cabinet; for my Love leads to Eleven A-Clock.   

11 A-Clock.  
The Hour to Write in.  
IF my Watch did not inform you, 'tis now time to Write: I believe, Damon, your Heart would; and tell you also, that I should take it kindly, if you would employ a whole Hour that way; and that you should never lose an Occasion of Writing to me, since you are assured of the Welcome I give your Letters. Perhaps you will say, an Hour is too much, and that 'tis not the Mode to write long Letters. I grant you, Damon, when we write those indifferent ones, of Gallantry in Course, or necessary Compliment; the handsome Comprising of which, in the fewest Words, renders 'em the most agreeable: But in Love, we have a Thousand foolish things to say, that, of themselves, bear no great Sound, but have a mighty Sense in Love; for there is a peculiar Eloquence, natural alone to a Lover, and to be understood by no other Creature: To those, Words have a thousand Graces, and Sweetnesses; which, to the Unconcerned, appears Meanness, and Easy Sense, at the best. But, Damon, you and I are none of those ill Judges of the Beauties of Love; we can penetrate beyond the Vulgar, and perceive the fine Soul in every Line, through all the humble Dress of Phrase; when possibly, they who think they discern it best in Florid Language, do not see it at all. Love was not born, or bred in Courts, but Cottages; and nursed in Groves and Shades, smiles on the Plains, and wantoness in the Streams; all Unadored, and Harmless. Therefore, Damon, do not consult your Wit in this Affair, but Love alone; and speak all that He and Nature taught you, and let the fine Things you learn in Schools alone: Make use of those Flowers you have gathered there, when you converse with Statesmen, and the Gown. Let Iris possess your Heart in all its simple Innocence, that's the best Eloquence to her that loves; and this is my Instruction to a Lover, that would succeed in his Amours; for I have a Heart very difficult to please, and this is the nearest Way to it.  

Advice to Lovers.  

Lovers, if you would gain a Heart,  
Of Damon learn to win the Prize:  
He'll show you all its tend'rest Part,  
And where its greatest Danger lies.  
The Magazine of its Disdain;  
Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain.   

If Present, do but little say;  
Enough the silent Lover speaks:  
But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day:  
Such empiric, more than Language takes.  
For Words the dullest way do move;  
And uttered more to show your Wit, than Love.   

Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart:  
Its Story is, for Words, too delicate.  
Souls thus exchange, and thus impart,  
And all their Secrets can relate.  
A Tear, a broken Sighs, She'll understand;  
Or the soft trembling Press of the Hand.   

Or if your Pain must be in Words expressed,  
Let'em fall gently, unassur'd, and slow;  
And where they fail, your Looks may tell the rest:  
Thus Damon spoke, and I was conquered so.  
The witty Talker has mistake his Art:  
The modest Lover only charms the Heart.   

Thus while all day you gazing sit,  
And fear to speak, and fear your Fate,  
Tou more Advantages by Silence get,  
Than the gay forward Touth, with all his Prate.  
Let him be silent here; but when away,  
Whatever Love can dictate, let him say.  
There let the Bashful Soul unveil,  
And give a Loose to Love and Truth:  
Let him improve the Amorous Tale,  
With all the Force of Words, and Fire of Touth.  
There all, and any thing, let him express;  
Too long he cannot write, too much confess.    
O Damon! How well have you made me understand this soft Pleasure! You know my Tenderness too well, not to be sensible, how I am charmed with your agreeable long Letters.  

The Invention.  
Ah! He who first found out the Way,  
Souls to each other to convey,  
Without dull Speaking, sure must be  
Something above Humanity.  
Let the fond World in vain dispute,  
And the first Sacred Mystery impute  
Of Letters, to the Learned Brood;  
And of the Glory, cheat a God:  
'Twas Love alone, that first the Art essayed;  
And Psyche was the first fair yielding Maid,  
That was by the dear Billet-doux setrayed.   
It is an Art too ingenious, to have been found out by Man; and too necessary to Lovers, not to have been invented by the God of Love himself. But, Damon, I do not pretend to exact from you those Letters of Gallantry, which, I have told you, are filled with nothing but fine Thoughts, and writ with all the Arts of Wit and Subtilty: I would have yours still, all Tender, unaffected Love, Words unchosen, Thoughts unstudied, and Love unfeigned. I had rather find more Softness, than Wit, in your Passion; more of Nature, than of Art; more of the Lover, than the Poet. Nor would I have you write any of those little short Letters, that are read over in a Minute: In Love, long Letters bring a long Pleasure. Do not trouble yourself to make 'em fine, or writea great deal of Wit and Sense in a few Lines; that is the Notion of a witty Billet, in any Affair, but that of Love: And have a Care, rather to avoid these Graces to a Mistress; and assure yourself, dear Damon, that what pleases the Soul, pleases the Eye; and the Largeness, or Bulk of your Letter, shall never offend me; and that I only am displeased, when I find them small. A Letter is ever the best, and most powerful Agent to a Mistress: It almost always persuades; 'tis always renewing little Impressions, that possibly, otherwise, Absence would deface. Make use then, Damon, of your Time, while 'tis given you; and thank me, that I permit you to write to me: Perhaps, I shall not always continue in the Humour of suffering you to do so; and it may so happen, by some Turn of Chance and Fortune, that you may be deprived, at the same time, both of my Presence, and of the Means of Sending to me. I will believe, that such an Accident would be a great Misfortune to you; for I have often heard you say, that, To make the most happy Lover suffer Martyrdom, one need only forbid him Seeing, Speaking, and Writing to the Object he loves. Take all the Advantages than you can, you cannot give me too often, Marks too powerful of your Passion: Write therefore, during this Hour, every Day. I give you leave to believe, that while you do so, you are Serving me the most Obligingly, and Agreeably you can, while Absent; and that you are giving me a Remedy against all Grief, Uneasiness, Melancholy, and Despair. Nay, if you exceed your Hour, you need not be ashamed: The Time you employ in this kind Devoir, is the Time that I shall be grateful for, and, no doubt, will recompense it. You ought not, however, to neglect Heaven for me; I will give you time for your Devotion, for my Watch tells you, 'tis time to go to the Temple.   

12 A-Clock.  
Indispensible Duty.  
THere are certain Duties, which one ought never to neglect: That of Adoring the Gods, is of this nature; and which we ought to pay, from the bottom of our Hearts: And that, Damon, is the only Time, I will dispense with your not Thinking on me. But I would not have you go to one of those Temples, where the Celebrated Beauties, and those that make a Profession of Gallantry, go; and which come thither, only to see, and be seen; and whither they repair, more to show their Beauty and Dress, than to honour the Gods. If you will take my Advice, and oblige my Wish, you shall go to those that are least frequented; and you shall appear there, like a Man, that has a perfect Veneration for all things Sacred.  

The Instruction.  

Damon, if your Heart, and Flame,  
Tou wish, should always be the same,  
Do not give it leave to Rove,  
Nor expose it to new Harms:  
Eer you think on't, you may Love,  
If you gaze on Beauty's Charms.  
If with me, you would not part,  
Turn your Eyes into your Heart.  
If you find a new Desire,  
In your Easy Soul, take Fire,  
From the Tempting Ruin fly;  
Think it Faithless, think it Base:  
Fancy soon will fade, and die,  
If you wisely cease to gaze.  
Lover's should have Honour too,  
Or they pay but half Love's Due.   

Do not to the Temple go,  
With design to Gaze, or Show:  
What e'er Thoughts you have abroad,  
Though you can deceive elsewhere,  
There's no Feigning with your God;  
Souls should be all Perfect there.  
The Heart that's to the Altar brought,  
Only Heaven should fill its Thought.   

Do not your sober Thoughts perplex,  
By gazing on the Ogling Sex.  
Or if Beauty call your Eyes,  
Do not on the Object dwell:  
Guard your Heart from the Surprise,  
By thinking, Iris doth excel.  
Above all Earthly Things, I'd be,  
Damon, most Beloved by Thee:  
And only Heaven must Rival me.     

1 A-Clock.  
Forced Entertainment.  
I Perceive, it will be very difficult for you to quit the Temple, without being surrounded with Compliments, from People of Ceremony, Friends, and News-Mongers, and several of those sorts of Persons, who afflict and busy themselves, and rejoice at a Hundred things, they have no Interest in: Coquets, and Politicians; who make it the Business of their whole Lives, to gather all the News of the Town: adding, or diminishing, according to the Stock of their Wit and Invention, and spreading it all abroad, to the believing Fools and Gossips; and perplexing every Body with a Hundred ridiculous Novels, which they pass off, for Wit, and Entertainment: Or else, some of those Recounters of Adventures, that are always telling of Intrigues, and that make a Secret, to a Hundred People, of a Thousand foolish things they have heard. Like a certain Pert, and Impertinent Lady of the Town, whose Youth and Beauty being past, sets up for Wit, to uphold a feeble Empire over idle Hearts: And whose Character is this,—  

The Coquet.  

Milinda, who had never been  
Esteemed a Beauty at Fifteen,  
Always Amorous was, and Kind:  
To every Swain, she lent an Ear.  
Free as Air, but False as Wind;  
Tet none complained, She was Severe.  
She eased more than she made complain:  
Was always Singing, Pert, and Vain.  
Where e'er the Throng was, she was seen,  
And swept the Youths along the Green.  
With equal Grace, she flattered all;  
And fond Proud of all Address:  
Her Smiles invite, her Eyes do call;  
And her vain Heart, her Looks confess.  
She Raillies this, to that she Bowed;  
Was Talking ever, Laughing loud.   

On every Side, she makes Advance;  
And every where, a Confidance.  
She tells, for Secrets, all she knows;  
And all to know, she does pretend,  
Beauty in Maids, she treats as Foes;  
But every handsome Youth, as Friend.  
Scandal still passes off for Truth;  
And Noise and Nonsense, Wit, and Youth.   

Coquet all over, and every Part,  
Yet wanting Beauty, even of Art.  
Herds with the Ugly, and the Old;  
And plays the Critic on the rest  
Of Men, the Bashful, and the Bold;  
Either, and All, by Turns, likes best.  
Even now, tho' Youth be languished, she  
Sets up for Love, and Gallantry.    
This sort of Creature, Damon, is very dangerous; not that I fear, you will squander away a Heart upon her, but your Hours; for, in spite of you, she'll detain you with a Thousand Impertinencies, and Eternal Tattle. She passes for a Judging Wit; and there is nothing so troublesome, as such a Pretender. She, perhaps, may get some Knowledge of our Correspondence; and then, no doubt, will improve it, to my Disadvantage. Possibly, she may rail at me; that is her fashion, by the way of Friendly Speaking; and an Awkward Commendation, the most effectual Way of Desaming, and Traducing. Perhaps she tells you, in a cold Tone, that you are a Happy Man, to be Beloved by me: That Iris, indeed, is handsome; and she wonders, she has no more Lovers; but the Men are not of her Mind; if they were, you should have more Rivals. She commends my Face, but that I have Blue Eyes, and 'tis pity my Complexion is no better: My Shape, but too much inclining to Fat. Cries— She would charm infinitely with her Wit, but that she knows too well, she is Mistress of it. And concludes,— But All together, she is well enough.— Thus she runs on, without giving you leave to edge in a Word, in my Defence; and ever, and anon, Crying up her own Conduct, and Management: Tell you, how she is oppressed with Lovers, and fatigued with Addresses; and recommending herself, at every Turn, with a perceivable Cunning: And all the while, is Jilting you of your good Opinion; which she would buy, at the Price of any Body's Repose, or her own Fame, though but for the Vanity of Adding to the number of her Lovers. When she sees a new Spark, the first thing she does, she inquires into his Estate: If she find it such, as may (if the Coxcomb be well managed) supply her Vanity, she makes Advances to him, and applieth herself to all those little Arts, she usually makes use of, to gain her Fools; and, according to his Humour, dresses and affects her own. But, Damon, since I point to no particular Person, in this Character, I will not name, who you shall avoid; but all of this sort, I conjure you, wheresoever you find find. But if unlucky Chance throw you in their Way, hear all they say, without Credit, or Regard, as far as Decency will suffer you: Hear 'em, without approving their Foppery; and hear 'em, without giving 'em Cause to censure you. But 'tis so much Time lost, to listen to all the Novels, this sort of People will perplex you with; whose Business is, to be idle; and who, even tyre themselves with their own Impertinencies. And be assured, after all, there is nothing they can tell you, that is worth your Knowing. And, Damon, A perfect Lover never asks any News, but of the Maid he loves.  

The Enquiry.  

Damon, If your Love be True,  
To the Heart that you possess,  
Tell me; What have you to do,  
Where you have no Tenderness?  
Her Affairs, who cares to learn,  
For whom he has not some Concern?   

If a Lover fain would know,  
If the Object loved be true,  
Let her but industrious be,  
To watch his Curiosity.  
Thou ne'er so cold his Questions seem,  
They come from warmer Thoughts within.   

When I hear a Swain inquire  
What Gay Melinda does to live,  
I conclude, there is some Fire  
In a Heart Inquisitive:  
Or 'tis, at least, the Bill, that's set,  
To show, The Heart is to be Let.     

2 A-Clock.  
Dinnertime.  
LEave all those fond Entertainments, or you will disoblige me, and make Dinner wait for you; for my Cupid tells you, 'tis that Hour. Love does not pretend to make you lose that; nor is it my Province, to order you your Diet. Here I give you a perfect Liberty, to do what you please: And possibly, 'tis the only Hour in the whole Four and twenty, that I will absolutely resign you, or dispense with your, even so much as Thinking on me. 'Tis true, in Seating yourself at Table, I would not have you placed over against a very Beautiful Object; for in such an one, there are a Thousand little Graces, in Speaking, Looking, and Laughing, that fail not to Charm, if one gives way to the Eyes, to gaze and wander that Way; in which, perhaps, in spite of you, you will find a Pleasure: And while you do so, though without Design, or Concern, you give the fair Charmer a sort of Vanity, in believing, you have placed yourself there, only for the Advantage of Looking on her; and assumes a Hundred little Graces, and Affectations, which are not Natural to her, to complete a Conquest, which she believes so well begun already. She softens her Eyes, and sweetens her Mouth; and, in fine, puts on another Air, than when she had no Design; and when you did not, by your continual Looking on her, rouse her Vanity, and increase her easy Opinion of her own Charms. Perhaps she knows, I have some Interest in your Heart; and Prides herself, at least, with believing, she has attracted the Eyes of my Lover, if not his Heart; and thinks it easy to vanquish the Whole, if she pleases; and triumphs over me in her secret Imaginations. Remember, Damon, that while you act thus in the Company, and Conversation of other Beauties, that every Look, or Word, you give, in favour of 'em, is an Indignity to my Reputation; and, which you cannot suffer, if you love me truly, and with Honour: And, assure yourself, so much Vanity as you inspire in her, so much Fame you rob me of; for whatever Praises you give another Beauty, so much you take away from mine. Therefore, if you dine in Company, do as others do: Be generally Civil, not applying yourself, by Words, or Looks, to any particular Person: Be as gay as you please: Talk and laugh with all, for this is not the Hour for Chagrin.  

The Permission.  

My Damon, tho' I stint your Love,  
I will not stint your Appetite:  
That I would have you still improve,  
By every new, and fresh Delight.  
Feast, till Apollo hides his Head;  
Or drink the Amorous God to Thetis Bed.   

Be like yourself: All Witty, Gay!  
And o'er the Bottle bless the Board,  
The Listening round will, all the Day,  
Be charmed, and pleased with every ibord.  
Tho' Venus' Son inspire your Wit,  
'Tis the Selenian God best utters it.   

Here talk of every thing, but me,  
Since every Thing you say with Grace.  
If not disposed your Humour be,  
And you'd this Hour in Silence pass;  
Since something must the Subject prove  
Of Damon's Thoughts; let it be Me, and Love.   

But, Damon, this ensranchised Hour,  
No Bounds, or Laws, will I impose;  
But leave it wholly in your Power,  
What Humour to refuse, or choose.  
I Rules prescribe but to your Flame;  
For I, your Mistress, not Physician, am.     

3 A-Clock.  
Visits to Friends.  
DAmon, my Watch is juster than you imagine; it would not have you live Retired and Solitary, but permits you to go, and make Visits. I am not one of those that believe, Love and Friendship cannot find a Place in one and the same Heart: And that Man would be very unhappy, who, as soon as he had a Mistress, should be obliged to renounce the Society of his Friends. I must confess, I would not, that you should have so much Concern for them, as you have for me; for I have heard a sort of a Proverb, that says, He cannot be very fervent in Love, who is not a little cold in Friendship. You are not ignorant, that when Love establishes himself in a Heart, he Reigns a Tyrant there; and will not suffer, even Friendship, if it pretend to share his Empire there.  

Cupid.  
Love is a God, whose charming Sway,  
Both Heaven, and Earth, and Seas obey.  
A Power that will not mingled be  
With any dull Equality.  
Since first from Heaven, which gave him Birth,  
He ruled the Empire of the Earth,  
Jealous of sovereign Power, he rules,  
And will be Absolute in Souls.   
I should be very angry, if you had any of those Friendships, which one ought to desire in a Mistress only; for many times it happens, that you have Sentiments a little too tender for those Amiable Persons; and many times, Love and Friendship are so confounded together, that one cannot easily discern one from tother. I have seen a Man flatter himself with an Opinion, that he had but an Esteem for a Woman, when, by some Turn of Fortune in her Life, as Marrying, or Receiving the Addresses of Men, he has found, by Spite and Jealousies within, that that was Love, which he before took for Complaisance, or Friendship. Therefore have a Care; for such Amity's are dangerous. Not but that a Lover may have Fair and Generous Female Friends, whom he ought to visit; and perhaps, I should esteem you less, if I did not believe, you were valued by such, if I were perfectly assured, they were Friends, and not Lovers. But have a care, you hide not a Mistress under this Veil, or that you gain not a Lover by this Pretence; for you may begin with Friendship, and end with Love; and I should be equally afflicted, should you give it, or receive it. And though you charge our Sex with all the Vanity; yet I often find Nature to have given you as large a Portion of that common Crime, which you would shuffle off, as ashamed to own; and are as fond and vain of the Imagination of a Conquest, as any Coquet of us all; though, at the same time, you despise the Victim, you think it adds a Trophy to your Fame. And I have seen a Man dress, and trick, and adjust his Looks and Mien, to make a Visit to a Woman he loved not, nor ever could love, as for those he made to his Mistress; and only for the Vanity of making a Conquest upon a Heart, even unworthy of the little Pains he has taken about it. And what is this, but buying Vanity at the Expense of Sense and Ease; and with Fatigue, purchase the Name of a Conceited Fop, besides that of a dishonest Man? For he who takes pains to make himself Beloved, only to please his curious Humour, though he should say nothing that tends to it, more than by his Looks, his Sighs, and now and then breaking into Praises and Commendations of the Object, by the Care he takes, to appear well dressed before her, and in good Order; he lies in his Looks, he deceives with his Mien and Fashion, and cheats with every Motion, and every Grace he puts on: He cousin's when he sings, or dances, he dissembles when he sighs; and every thing he does, that wilfully gains upon her, is Malice propense, Baseness, and Art below a Man of Sense, or Virtue: And yet these Arts, these Coz'nages, are the common Practices of the Town. What's this, but that Damnable Vice, of which they so reproach our Sex; that of Jilting for Hearts? And 'tis in vain, that my Lover, after such foul Play, shall think to appease me, with saying, He did it, to try how easily he could conquer, and of how great Force his Charms were: And why should I be angry, if all the Town loved him, since he loved none but Iris? Oh Foolish Pleasure! How little Sense goes to the making of such a Happiness? And how little Love must he have for one particular Person, who would wish to inspire it into all the World, and yet himself pretend to be insensible? But this, Damon, is rather, what is but too much practised by your Sex, than any Gild I charge on you; though Vanity be an Ingredient, that Nature very seldom omits, in the Composition of either Sex; and you may be allowed a Tincture of it, at least. And perhaps, I am not wholly exempt from this Leaven in my Nature, but accuse myself sometimes, of finding a secret Joy of being Adored, though I even hate my Worshipper. But if any such Pleasure touch my Heart, I find it, at the same time, blushing in my Cheeks, with a guilty Shame; which soon checks the petty Triumph, and I have a Virtue at soberer Thoughts, that I find surmounts my Weakness, and Indiscretion; and I hope, Damon finds the same; for, should he have any of those Attachments, I should have no Pity for him.  

The Example.  

Damon, if you would have me True,  
Be you my Precedent, and Guide:  
Example sooner we pursue,  
Than the dull Dictates of our Pride.  
Precepts of Virtue are too weak an Aim:  
'Tis Demonstration, that can best reclaim.   

Show me the Path you'd have me go;  
With such a Guide, I cannot stray:  
What you approve, what e'er you do,  
It is but just, I bend that Way.  
If true, my Honour favours your Design:  
If false, Revenge is the Result of mine.   

A Lover True, a Maid Sincere,  
Are to be prized, as Things Divine:  
'Tis Justice makes the Blessing dear;  
Justice of Love, without Design.  
And She that Reigns not in a Heart alone,  
Is never Safe, or Easie, on her Throne.     

4 A-Clock.  
General Conversation.  
IN this Visiting Hour, many People will happen to meet, at one and the same time together, in a Place: And, as you make not Visits to Friends, to be silent, you ought to enter into Conversation with 'em; but those Conversations ought to be General, and of General Things; for there is no necessity of making your Friend the Confident of your Amours: 'Twould infinitely displease me, to hear, you have revealed to them, all that I have reposed in you: Though Secrets never so trivial, yet, since uttered between Lovers, they deserve to be prized at a higher Rate. For what can show a Heart more indifferent, and indiscreet, than to declare, in any Fashion, or with Mirth, or Joy, the Tender Things a Mistress says to a Lover; and which possibly, related at Second Hand, bear not the same Sense, because they have not the same Sound and Air, they had Originally, when they came from the soft Heart of her, who sighed 'em first, to her lavish Lover. Perhaps they are told again with Mirth, or Joy, unbecoming their Character, and Business; and then they lose their Graces; (for Love is the most Solemn Thing in Nature, and the most unsuiting with Gaiety.) Perhaps the soft Expressions suit not so well the harsher Voice of the Masculine Lover, whose Accents were not formed for so much Tenderness; at least, not of that sort; for Words that have the same Meaning, are altered from their Sense, by the least Tone, or Accent of the Voice; and those proper, and fitted to my Soul, are not, possibly, so to yours, though both have the same Efficacy upon us; yours upon my Heart, as mine upon yours; and both will be misunderstood by the unjudging World. Besides this, there is a Holiness in Love, that's true, that ought not to be profaned: And as the Poet truly says, at the latter End of an Ode; of which, I will recite the Whole.  

The Invitation.  

Aminta, fear not to confess  
The charming Secret of thy Tenderness:  
That which a Lover can't conceal,  
That which, to me, thou shouldst reveal;  
And is but what thy Lovely Eyes express.  
Come, whisper to my panting Heart,  
That heaves, and meets thy Voice half way:  
That guesses what thou wouldst impart,  
And languishes for what thou hast to say.  
Confirm my trembling Doubt, and make me know,  
Whence all these Blush, and these Sigh flow.   

Why dost thou scruple to unfold  
A Mystery that does my Life concern?  
If thoune'er speakest, it will be told;  
For Lovers all things can discern.  
From every Look, from every bashful Grace,  
That still succeed each other, in thy Face,  
I shall the dear Transporting Secret learn:  
But 'tis a Pleasure, not to be expressed,  
To hear it by thy Voice confessed,  
When soft Sighs breathe it on my panting Breast.  
All calm and silent is the Grove,  
Whose shading Boughs resist the Day:  
Here thou may'st blush, and talk of Love,  
While only Winds, unheeding, stay,  
That will not bear the Sound away:  
While I, with solemn Awful Joy,  
All my Attentive Faculties employ;  
Listening to every valued Word;  
And in my Soul, the Sacred Treasure hoard.  
There, like some Mystery Divine,  
The Wondrous Knowledge I'll enshrine.  
Love can his Joys, no longer call his own,  
Than the dear Secrets kept unknown.    
There is nothing more true, than those two last Lines; and that Love ceases to be a Pleasure, when it ceases to be a Secret, and one you ought to keep Sacred. For the World, who never makes a right Judgement of Things, will misinterpret Love, as they do Religion; every one judging it, according to the Notion he has of if, or the Talon of his Sense. Love, as a great Duke said, is like Apparitions; every one talks of 'em, but few have seen 'em: Every body thinks himself capable of understanding Love, and that he is a Master in the Art of it; when there is nothing so nice, or difficult to be rightly comprehended; and indeed, cannot be, but to a Soul very delicate. Nor will he make himself known to the Vulgar: There must be an uncommon Fineness in the Mind, that contains him; the rest, he only visits in as many Disguises, as there are Dispositions, and Natures; where he makes but a short Stay, and is gone. He can fit himself to all Hearts, being the greatest Flatterer in the World: And he possesses every one with a Confidence, that they are in the Number of his Elect; and they think, they know him perfectly, when nothing but the Spirits refined, possess him in his Excellency. From this Difference of Love in different Souls, proceeds those odd Fantastic Maxims, which so many hold of so different Kind's: And this makes the most innocent Pleasures pass oftentimes for Crimes, with the unjudging Crowd, who call themselves Lovers: And you will have your Passion censured, by as many as you shall discover it to, and as many several Ways. I advise you therefore, Damon, to make no Confifidents of your Amours; and believe, that Silence has, with me, the most powerful Charm.  
'Tis also in these Conversations, that those indiscreetly civil Persons often are, who think to oblige a good Man, by letting him know, he is Beloved by some one, or other; and making him understand, how many good Qualities he is Master of, to render him agreeable to the fair Sex, if he would but advance, where Love and good Fortune calls; and that a too constant Lover loses a great part of his Time, which might be managed to more Advantage, since Youth hath so short a Race to run: By this, and a Thousand the like indecent Complaisances, give him a Vanity, that suits not with that Discretion, which has hitherto acquired him so good a Reputation. I would not have you, Damon, act on these Occasions, as many of the Easy Sparks have done before you, who receive such Weakness and Flattery for Truth; and passing it off with a Smile, suffer 'em to advance in Folly, till they have gained a Credit with 'em, and they believe all they hear; telling 'em they do so, by consenting Gestures, Silence, or open Approbation. For my part, I should not condemn a Lover, that should answer such a sort of civil Brokers for Love somewhat briskly, and by giving 'em to understand, they are already engaged; or directing 'em to Fools, that will possibly hearken to 'em, and credit such Stuff, shame 'em out of a Folly so insamous, and disingenuous. In such a Case only, I am willing you should own your Passion; not that you need tell the Object, which has charmed you: And you may say, you are already a Lover, without saying, you are Beloved. For so long as you appear to have a Heart unengaged, you are exposed to all the little Arts and Addresses of this sort of obliging Procurers of Love, and give way to the Hope they have, of making you their Proselyte. For your own Reputation then, and my Ease and Honour, eat such Conversations; for they are neither credible to you, nor pleasing to me: And believe me, Damon, a true Lover has no Curiosity, but what concerns his Mistress.   

5 A-Clock.  
Dangerous Visits.  
I Foresee, or fear, that these busy, impertinent Friends will oblige you, to visit some Ladies of their Acquaintance, or yours: My Watch does not forbid you. Yet I must tell you, I apprehend Danger in such Visits; and I fear, you will have need of all your Care and Precaution, in these Encounters. That you may give me no Cause to suspect you, perhaps you will argue, that Civility obliges you to't: If I were assured, there would no other Design be carried on, I should believe, it were to advance an Amorous Prudence too far, to forbid you. Only keep yourself upon your Guard; for the Business of most part of the fair Sex is, to seek only the Conquest of Hearts: All their Civilities, are but so many Interests; and they do nothing without Design. And in such Conversations, there is always a Je ne scay quoy, that is to be feared; especially, when Beauty is accompanied with Youth and Gaiety; and which they assume, upon all Occasions that may serve their Turn. And I confess, 'tis not an easy matter to be just in these Hours and Conversations: The most certain Way of being so, is to imagine, I read all your Thoughts, observe all your Looks, and hear all your Words.  

The Caution.  
My Damon, if your Heart be kind,  
Do not too long with Beauty stay;  
For there are certain Moment's, when the Mind  
Is hurried, by the Force of Charms, away.  
In Fate, a Minute Critical there lics,  
That waits on Love, and takes you by Surprise.  
A Lover pleased with Constancy,  
Lives still as if the Maid he loved were by:  
As if his Actions were in View:  
As if his Steps she did pursue;  
Or that his very Soul she knew.  
Take heed; for tho' I am not present there,  
My Love, my Genius, waits you every where.   
I am very much pleased with the Remedy, you say, you make use of, to defend yourself from the Attacks that Beauty gives your Heart; which, in one of your Billets, you said, was this, or to this purpose.  

The Charm for Constancy.  
Iris, to keep my Soul entire, and true,  
It thinks, each Moment of the Day, on you.  
And when a charming Face I see,  
That does all other Eyes incline,  
It has no Influence on me:  
I think it even deformed to thine.  
My Eyes, my Soul, and Sense, regardless move  
To all, but the dear Object of my Love.   
But, Damon, I know, all Lovers are naturally Flatterers, though they do not think so themselves; because every one makes a Sense of Beauty, according to his own Fancy. But perhaps, you will say, in your own Defence, That 'tis not Flattery to say, an Unbeautiful Woman is Beautiful, if he that says so, believes she is so. I should be content to acquit you of the first, provided you allow me the last: And if I appear Charming in Damon's Eyes, I am not fond of the Approbation of any other. 'Tis enough, the World thinks me not altogether disagreeable, to justify his Choice; but let your good Opinion give what Increase it pleases, to my Beauty; though your Approbation give me a Pleasure, it shall not a Vanity; and I am contented, that Damon should think me a Beauty, without my believing I am one. 'Tis not to draw new Assurances, and new Vows from you, that I speak this; though Tales of Love are the only ones we desire to hear often told, and which never tyre the Hearers, if addressed to themselves: But 'tis not to this End, I now seem to doubt what you say to my Advantage: No, my Heart knows no Disguise, nor can dissemble one Thought of it to Damon; 'tis all Sincere, and Honest, as his Wish: 'Tis therefore it tells you, it does not credit every Thing you say; though I believe, you say abundance of Truths, in a great Part of my Character. But when you advance to that, which my own Sense, my Judgement, or my Glass cannot persuade me to believe; you must give me leave, either to believe, you think me vain enough to credit you, or pleased, that your Sentiments and mine are differing in this Point. But I doubt, I may rather reply in some Verses, a Friend of yours and mine, sent to a Person, she thought, had but indifferent Sentiments for her; yet, who, nevertheless, flattered her, because he imagined, she had a very great Esteem for him. She is a Woman that, you know, naturally hates Flattery: On the other side, she was extremely dissatisfied, and uneasy, at his Opinion, of his being more in her Favour, than she desired he should believe. So that, one Night, having left her full of Pride and Anger, she, next Morning, sent him these Verses, instead of a Billet-doux.  

The Defiance.  

By Heaven, 'tis false: I am not vain;  
And rather would the Subject be  
Of your Indifference, or Disdain,  
Than Wit, or Raillery.   

Take back the trifling Praise you give,  
And pass it on same Easier Fool,  
Who may th'Injuring Wit believe,  
That turns her into Ridicule.   

Tell her, she's Witty, Fair, and Gay;  
With all the Charms that can subdue:  
Perhaps she'll credit what you say:  
But Curse me, if I do.   

If your Diversion you design,  
On my Good Nature you have pressed:  
Or if you do intend it mine,  
You have mistake the Jest.   

Philander, fly that guilty Art:  
Your Charming Facile Wit will find,  
It cannot play long on a Heart,  
That is Sincere and Kind.   

For Wit with Softness does reside,  
Good Nature is with Pity stored;  
But Flatt'ry's the Result of Pride,  
And fawns to be Adored.   

Nay, even when you smile and bow,  
'Tis to be rendered more complete.  
Your Wit, with every Grace you show,  
Is but a Popular Cheat.   

Laugh on, and call me Coxcomb— do;  
And, your Opinion to improve,  
Think, all you think of me, is true;  
And, to confirm it, swear, I love.   

Then, while you wreck my Soul with Pain,  
And of a Cruel Conquest boast,  
'Tis you, Philander, that are Vain,  
And Witty, at my Cost.    
Possibly, the angry Aminta, when she writ these Verses, was more offended, that he believed himself beloved, than that he flattered; though she would seem to make that a great Part of the Quarrel, and Cause of her Resentment: For we are often in an Humour, to seem more Modest in that Point, than naturally we are; being too apt to have a favourable Opinion of ourselves: And 'tis rather, the Effects of a Fear that we are flattered, than our own ill Opinion of the Beauty flattered; and that the Praiser does not think so well of it, as we do ourselves, or as, at least, we wish he should. Not but there are Grains of Allowance, for the Temper of him that speaks: One Man's Humour is, to talk much; and he may be permitted to enlarge upon the Praise he gives the Person he pretends to, without being accused of much Gild. Another hates to be Wordy; from such an one, I have known, one soft Expression, one tender Thing, go as far, as whole Days everlasting Protestations, urged with Vows, and mighty Eloquence: And both the One, and the Other, indeed, must be allowed, in good Manners, to stretch the Compliment beyond the Bounds of nice Truth; and we must not wonder, to hear a Man call a Woman, a Beauty, when she is not Ugly; or another, a Great Wit, if she have but Common Sense, above the Vulgar; well Bred, when well Dressed; and Good-natured, when Civil. And as I should be very Ridiculous, if I took all you said, for Absolute Truth; so I should be very Unjust, not to allow you very Sincere, in almost all you said besides; and those Things, the most Material to Love, Honour, and Friendship. And for the rest, Damon, be it true, or false, this believe; You speak with such a Grace, that I cannot choose but Credit you; and find an infinite Pleasure in that Faith, because I love you: And if I cannot find the Cheat, I am contented, you should deceive me on, because you do it so agreeably.   

6 A-Clock.  
Walk without Design.  
YOu yet have Time to Walk; and my Watch foresaw, you could not refuse your Friends. You must to the Park, or the Mall; for the Season is fair, and inviting; and all the Young Beauties love those Places too well, not to be there. 'Tis there, that a Thousand Intrigues are carried on, and as many more designed. 'Tis there, that every one is set out for Conquest; and who aim at nothing, less than Hearts. Guard yours well, my Damon; and be not always Admiring what you see. Do not, in passing by sigh 'em silent Praises. Suffer not so much as a guilty Wish to approach your Thoughts, nor a heedful Glance to steal from your fine Eyes: Those are Regards, you ought only to have for her you Love. But Oh! Above all, have a Care of what you say. You are not reproachable, if you should remain silent, all the Time of your Walk; nor would those that know you, believe it the Effects of Dulness, but Melancholy. And if any of your Friends ask you, Why you are so? I will give you leave to sigh, and say—  

The Mal-Content.  

Ah! Wonder not, if I appear  
Regardless of the Pleasures here;  
Or that my Thoughts are thus confined  
To the Just Limits of my Mind.  
My Eyes take no Delight to rove  
O'er all the Smiling Charmers of the Grove,  
Since She is absent, whom they Love.  
Ask me not, Why the flowery Spring,  
Or the Gay Little Birds, that sing,  
Or the Young Streams, no more delight,  
Or Shades and Arbours can't invite?  
Why the soft Murmurs of the Wind,  
Within the Thick-grown Groves confined,  
No more my Soul transport, or cheer?  
Since all that's Charming,— Iris is not here;  
Nothing seems Glorious, nothing Fair.   

Then suffer me to Wander thus,  
With Downcast Eyes, and Arms across.  
Let Beauty, unregarded go;  
The Trees and Flowers; unheeded grow.  
Let purling Streams, neglected glide;  
With all the Spring's adorning-Pride.  
'Tis Iris only Soul can give  
To the Dull Shades, and Plains, and make 'em Thrive;  
Nature, and my lost Joys, retrieve.    
I do not, for all this, wholly confine your Eyes: You may look indifferently, on all; but with a particular Regard, on none. You may praise all the Beauties, in General; but no single One, too much. I will not exact from you, neither, an entire Silence: There are a Thousand Civilities, you ought to pay to all your Friends and Acquaintance; and while I caution you of Actions, that may get you the Reputation of a Lover, of some of the Fair, that haunt those Places; I would not have you, by an unnecessary, and uncomplainsant Sullenness, gain that of a Person too Negligent, or Morose. I would have you remiss in no one Punctilio of Good Manners. I would have you very Just, and pay all you Owe. But in these Affairs, be not Over-generous, and give away too much. In fine, You may Look, Speak, and Walk; but, Damon, do it all without Design: And while you do so, remember, that Iris sent you this Advice.  

The Warning.  

Take heed, my Damon, in the Grove,  
Where Beauties, with Design, do walk:  
Take heed, my Damon, how you look, and talk;  
For there are Ambuscades of Love.  
The very Winds, that softly blow,  
Will help betray your Easy Heart;  
And all the Flowers, that blushing grow;  
The Shades above, and Rivulets below,  
Will take the Victor's Part.   

Remember, Damon, all my Safety lies  
In the Just Conduct of your Eyes.  
The Heart, by Nature, Good and Brave,  
Is, to those Treacherous Guards, a Slave.  
If they let in the Fair destructive Foe,  
Scarce Honour can defend her Noble Seat:  
Even She will be corrupted too,  
Or driven to a Retreat.  
The Soul is but the Cully to the Sight,  
And must be pleased, in what that takes Delight.    
Therefore, examine yourself well; and conduct your Eyes, during this Walk, like a Lover, that seeks nothing: And do not stay too long in these Places.   

7 A-Clock.  
Voluntary Retreat.  
'TIs Time to be weary; 'tis Night: Take Leave of your Friends, and retire Home. 'Tis in this Retreat, that you ought to recollect, in your Thoughts, all the Actions of the Day; and all those Things, that you ought to give me an Account of, in your Letter: You cannot hide the least Secret from me, without Treason against Sacred Love. For all the World agrees, that Confidence is one of the greatest Proofs of the Passion of Love; and that Lover, who refuses this Confidence to the Person he loves, is to be suspected, to love but very indifferently, and to think very poorly of the Sense and Generosity of his Mistress. But, that you may acquit yourself like a Man, and a Lover of Honour, and leave me no Doubt upon my Soul; think of all you have done this Day, that I may have all the Story of it, in your next Letter to me: But deal faithfully; and neither add, nor diminish, in your Relation; the Truth and Sincerity of your Confession will atone, even for little Faults, that you shall commit against me, in some of those Things you shall tell me. For if you have failed in any Point, or Circumstance of Love, I had much rather hear it from you, than another: For 'tis a sort of Repentance, to accuse yourself; and would be a Crime unpardonable, if you suffer me to hear it from any other: And be assured, while you confess it, I shall be indulgent enough to forgive you. The noblest Quality of Man, is Sincerity; and, Damon, one ought to have as much of it in Love, as in any other Business of one's Life, notwithstanding the most Part of Men make no Account of it there; but will believe, there ought to be double Dealing, and an Art, practised in Love, as well as in War. But, Oh! beware of that Notion:  

Sincerity.  

Sincerity! Thou greatest Good!  
Thou Virtue, which so many boast!  
And art so nicely understood!  
And often, in the Searching, lost.  
For when we do approach thee near,  
The fine Idea, framed of thee,  
Appears not now, so charming fair,  
As the more useful Flattery.  
Thou hast no Glistering, to invite;  
Nor tak'st the Lover, at first Sight,   

The Modest Virtue shuns the Crowd,  
And lives, like Vestals, in a Cell;  
In Cities, 'twill not be allowed;  
Nor takes Delight, in Courts to dwell.  
'Tis Nonsense with the Man of Wit;  
And even a Scandal to the Great:  
For all the Tongue, and Fair, unfit;  
And scorned bywiser Fops of State.  
A Virtue, yet was never known  
To the false Trader, or the falser Gown.   

And, Damon, tho' thy Noble Blood  
Be most Illustr'ous, and Refined;  
Tho' every Grace; and every Good  
Adorn thy Person, and thy Mind;  
Yet, if this Virtue shine not there;  
(This Godlike Virtue, which alone,  
Were't thou less Witty, Brave, or Fair,  
Would for all these, less prized, atone:)  
My tender Folly I'd control,  
And scorn the Conquest of thy Soul.     

8 A-Clock.  
Impatient Demands.  
AFter you have sufficiently recollected yourself, of all the past Actions of the Day, call your Page into your Cabinet, or him, whom you trusted with your last Letter to me; where you ought to inquire of him, a Thousand Things; and all, of me. Ask impatiently; and be angry, if he answers not your Curiosity soon enough: Think that he has a Dreaming in his Voice, in these Moment's, more than at other Times; and reproach him with Dulness. For 'tis most certain, that when one loves tenderly, we would know in a Minute, what cannot be related in an Hour. Ask him, How I did? How I received his Letter? And if he examined the Air of my Face, when I took it? If I Blushed, or looked Pale? If my Hand trembled, or I spoke to him, with short, interrupting Sighs? If I asked him any Questions about you, while I was opening the Seal? or if I could not well speak, and was silent? If I read it Attentively, and with Joy? And all this, before you open the Answer, I have sent you by him: Which, because you are impatient to read, you, with the more Haste and Earnestness, demand all you expect from him; and that you may the better know, what Humour I was in, when I writ that to you. For, Oh! a Lover has a Thousand little Fears, and Dreads; he knows not why. In fine, make him recount to you, all that past, while he was with me: And then you ought to read that which I have sent, that you may inform yourself of all that passes in my Heart; for you may assure yourself, all that I say to you that way, proceeds from thence.  

The Assurance.  

How shall a Lover come to know,  
Whether he's Beloved, or no?  
What dear Things must she impart,  
To assure him of her Heart?  
Is it, when her Blushes rise;  
And she languish in her Eyes:  
Tremble, when he does approach:  
Look Pale, and faint at every Touch?   

Is it when, a Thousand Ways,  
She does his Wit and Beauty praise?  
Or she venture to explain,  
In less moving Words, a Pain;  
Tho' so indiscreet she grows,  
To confirm it with her Vows.   

These some short-lived Passion moves;  
While the Object's by, she loves;  
While the gay, and sudden Fire  
Kindles by some fond Desire:  
And a Coldness will ensue,  
When the Lover's out of View.  
Then she reflects, with Scandal, o'er  
The easy Scene, that past before.  
Then, with Blushes, would recall  
The unconsid'ring Criminal;  
In which, a Thousand Faults she'll find,  
And chide the Errors of her Mind.  
Such fickle Weight is found in Words,  
As no substantial Faith affords:  
Deceived and baffled all may be,  
Who trust that frail Security.   

But a well-digested Flame,  
That will always be the same;  
And that does, from Merit, grow  
Established by our Reason too;  
By a better Way, will prove,  
'Tis th' unerring Fire of Love.  
Lasting Records it will give:  
And, that all she says, may live,  
Sacred and Authentic stand,  
Her Heart confirms it by her Hand.  
If this, a Maid, well born, allow;  
Damon, believe her Just and True.     

9 A-Clock.  
Melancholy Reflections.  
YOu will not have much trouble to explain what my Watch designs here. There can be no Thought more afflicting, than that of the Absence of a Mistress; and which, the Sigh of the Heart will soon make you find. Ten Thousand Fears oppress him; he is jealous of every Body, and envies those Eyes and Ears, that are charmed, by being near the Object adored. He grows impatient, and makes a Thousand Resolutions, and as soon abandons 'em all. He gives himself wholly up to the Torment of Incertainty; and by degrees, from one cruel Thought, to another, winds himself up to insupportable Chagrin. Take this Hour then, to think on your Misfortunes; which cannot be small, to a Soul that is wholly sensible of Love. And every one knows, that a Lover, deprived of the Object of his Heart, is deprived of all the World, and Inconsolable. For though one wishes, without ceasing, for the dear Charmer one loves, and though you speak of her every Minute; though you are writing to her every Day, and though you are infinitely pleased with the dear, and tender Answers; yet, to speak sincerely, it must be confessed, that the Felicity of a true Lover, is to be always near his Mistress. And you may tell me, O Damon! what you please; and say, that Absence inspires the Flame, which perpetual Presence would satiate; I love too well, to be of that Mind; and when I am, I shall believe, my Passion is declining. I know not whether it advances your Love; but surely, it must ruin your Repose: And is it impossible to be, at once, an absent Lover, and Happy too? For my part, I can meet with nothing, that can please, in the Absence of Damon; but, on the contrary, I see all Things with Disgust. I will flatter myself, that 'tis so with you; and that the least Evils appear great Misfortunes; and that all thòse, who speak to you of any thing, but of what you love, increase your Pain, by a new Remembrance of her Absence. I will believe, that these are your Sentiments, you are assured, not to see me in some Weeks; and, if your Heart do not betray your Words, all those Days will be tedious to you. I would not, however, have your Melancholy too extreme; and to lessen it, you may persuade yourself, that I partake it with you; for, I remember, in your Last, you told me, you would wish, we should be both grieved at the same Time, and both, at the same Time, pleased; and I believe, I love too well, not to obey you.  

Love Secured.  

Love, of all Joys, the sweetest is;  
The most substantial Happiness:  
The softest Blessing, Life can crave:  
The noblest Passion, Souls can have.  
Yet, if no Interruptions were,  
No Difficulties came between,  
I would not be rendered half so dear.  
The Sky is gayest, when small Clouds are seen.  
The sweetest Flower, the blushing Rose,  
Amidst the Thorns, securest grows.   

If Love were one continued Joy,  
How soon the Happiness would cloy!  
The wiser Gods did this foresee;  
And, to preserve the Bliss entire,  
Mixed it with Doubt and Jealousy,  
Those necessary Fuels to the Fire.  
Sustained the sleeting Pleasures, with new Fears;  
With little Quarrels, Sighs, and Tears;  
With Absence, that tormenting Smart,  
That makes a Minute seem a Day;  
A Day, a Year, to the impatient Heart,  
That languishes in the Delay,  
But cannot sigh the tender Pain away;  
That still returns, and with a greater Force,  
Through every Vein, it takes its grateful Course.  
But whatsoe'er the Lover does sustain,  
Tho'he still sigh, complain, and fear,  
It cannot be a Mortal Pain,  
When two do the Affliction bear.     

10 A-Clock.  
Reflections.  
After the afflicting Thoughts of my Absence, make some Reflections on your Happiness. Think it a Blessing, to be permitted to love me: Think it so, because I permit it to you alone; and never could be drawn, to allow it any other. The first Thing you ought to consider is, that, at length, I have suffered myself to be overcome, to quit that Nicety, that is natural to me, and receive your Addresses; nay, thought 'em agreeable; and that I have, at last, confessed, the Present of your Heart is very dear to me. 'Tis true, I did not accept of it the first Time it was offered me, nor before you had told me a Thousand times, that you could not escape Expiring, if I did not give you leave to sigh for me, and gaze upon me; and that there was an absolute Necessity for me, either to give you leave to love, or die. And all those Rigours, my Severity has made you suffer, ought now to be recounted to your Memory, as Subjects of Pleasure; and you ought to esteem, and judge of the Price of my Affections, by the Difficulties you found, in being able to touch my Heart: Not but you have Charms, that can conquer at first Sight; and you ought not to have valued me less, if I had been more easily gained: But 'tis enough to please you, to think, and know, I am gained; no matter when, or how. When, after a Thousand Cares and Inquietudes, that which we wish for, succeeds to our Desires, the Remembrance of those Pains and Pleasures we encountered, in arriving at it, gives us a new Joy.  
Remember also, Damon, that I have preferred you, before all those, that have been thought worthy of my Esteem; and that I have shut my Eyes to all their pleading Merits, and could survey none, but yours.  
Consider then, that you had, not only the Happiness to please me; but that you only found out the Way of doing it; and I had the Goodness, at last, to tell you so, contrary to all the Delicacy, and Niceness of my Soul; contrary to my Prudence, and all those Scruples, you know, are natural to my Humour.  
My Tenderness proceeded further, and I gave you innocent Marks of my newborn Passion, on all Occasions, that presented themselves: For after that, from my Eyes and Tongue, you knew the Sentiments of my Heart, I confirmed that Truth to you, by my Letters. Confess, Damon, that if you make these Reflections, you will not pass this Hour very disagreeably.  

Beginning Love.  

As free as wanton Winds, I lived,  
That unconcerned, do play:  
No broken Faith, no Fate I grieved;  
No Fortune gave me Joy.  
A dull Content crowned all my Hours;  
My Heart no Sighs oppressed:  
I called in vain on no deas Powers,  
To ease a tortured Breast.   

The sighing Swains regardless pined,  
And strove in vain, to please:  
With Pain, I civilly was kind;  
But could afford no Ease.  
Tho' Wit and Beauty did abound,  
The Charm was wanting still,  
That could inspire the tender Wound,  
Or bend my careless Will.  
Till in my Heart, a kindling Flame,  
Tour softer Sighs had blown;  
Which I, with striving, Love and Shame,  
Too senfibly did own.  
What e'er the God, before could plead;  
What e'er the Touth's Desert;  
The feeble Siege in vain was laid,  
Against my stubborn Heart.   

At first, my Sighs and Blushes spoke,  
Just when your Sighs would rise:  
And when you gazed, I wished to look;  
But durst not meet your Eyes.  
I trembled, when my Hand you pressed,  
Nor could my Gild control;  
But Love prevailed, and I confessed  
The Secrets of my Soul.   

And when, upon the giving Part,  
My Present to avow,  
By all the Ways, confirmed my Heart,  
That Honour would allow;  
Too mean was all that I could say,  
Too poorly understood:  
I gave my Soul the noblest Way,  
My Letters made it good.    
You may believe, I did not easily, nor suddenly, bring my Heart to this Condescension; but I loved, and all Things in Damon, were capable of making me resolve so to do. I could not think it a Crime, where every Grace, and every Virtue justified my Choice: And when once one is assured of this, we find not much Difficulty in owning that Passion, which will so well commend one's Judgement; and there is no Obstacle, that Love does not surmount. I confessed my Weakness a Thousand Ways, before I told it you, and I remember all those Things with Pleasure; but yet I remember 'em also with Shame.   

11 A-Clock.  
Supper.  
I Will believe, Damon, that you have been so well entertained, during this Hour, and have found so much much in these Thoughts, that if one did not tell you, that Supper waits, you would lose yourself in Reflections so pleasing, many more Minutes. But you must go, where you are expected; perhaps among the Fair, the Young, the Gay; but do not abandon your Heant to too much Joy, though you have so much Reason to be contented: But the greatest Pleasures are always imperfect. If the Object be loved, do not partake of it: For this Reason, be cheerful; and merry, with Reserve. Do not talk too much; I know, you do not love it; and if you do it, 'twill be the Effect of too much Complaisance, or with some Design of Pleasing too well; for you know your own charming Power, and how agreeable your Wit and Conversation is to all the World. Remember, I am covetous of every Word you speak, that is not addressed to me; and envy the happy Listner, if I am not by: And I may reply to you, as Aminta did to Philander, when he charged her of loving a Talker: And because, perhaps, you have not heard it, I will, to divert you; send it you; and at the same time assure you, Damon, that your more noble Quality, of Speaking little, has reduced me to a perfect Abhorrence of those Wordy Sparks, that value themselves, upon their Ready, and Much Talking upon every trivial Subject; and who have so good an Opinion of their Talon that Way, they will let no body edge in a Word, or a Reply; but will make all the Conversation themselves, that they may pass for very Entertaining Persons, and pure Company. But the Verses—  

The Reformation.  

Philander, since you'll have it so;  
I grant, I was impertinent;  
And, till this Moment, did not know,  
Through all my Life, what 'twas I meant.  
Your kind Opinion was the flattering Glass,  
In which my Mind, found how deformed it was.  
In your clear Sense, which knows no Art,  
I saw the Errors of my Soul:  
And all the Foibless of my Heart,  
With one Reflection, you control.  
Kind as a God and gently you chastise:  
By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.   

Impertinence, my Sex's Shame,  
That has so long my Life pursued,  
You with such Modesty reclaim,  
As all the Women has subdued.  
To so Divine a Power, what must I owe,  
That renders me so like the Perfect You?  
That Conversable Thing I hate  
Already, with a just Disdain,  
That prides himself upon his Prate,  
And is, of words, that Nonsense vain.  
When in your few, appears such Excellence,  
As have reproached, and charmed me into Sense.   

For ever may I list'ning sit,  
Tho' but each Hour, a Word be born;  
I would attend the Coming Wit,  
And bless what can so well inform.  
Let the dull World, henceforth, to Words be damned;  
I'm into nobler Sense, than Talking, shamed.    
I believe you are so good a Lover, as to be of my Opinion; and that you will neither force yourself against Nature, nor find much Occasion to lavish out those excellent Things, that must proceed from you, whenever you speak. If all Women were like me, I should have more Reason to fear your Silence, than your Talk; for you have a Thousand Ways to charm, without Speaking; and those which, to me, show a great deal more Concern. But, Damon, you know, the greatest Part of my Sex, judge the fine Gentleman, by the Volubility of his Tongue, by his Dexterity in Repartee; and cry—" Oh! He never wants fine Things to say: He's eternally Talking the most surprising Things." But, Damon, you are well assured, I hope, that Iris is none of these Coquets; at least, if she had any Spark of it once in her Nature, she is, by the Excellency of your contrary Temper, taught to know, and scorn the Folly: And take heed, your Conduct never give me Cause to suspect, you have deceived me in your Temper.   

12 A-Clock.  
Complaisance.  
NEvertheless, Damon, Civility requires a little Complaisance, after Supper; and I am assured, you can never want that, though, I confess, you are not accused of too general a Complaisance; and do not often make use of it, to those Persons, you have an Indifference for; though one is not the less Esteemable, for having more of this, than one ought; and though an Excess of it be a Fault, 'tis a very excusable one: Have therefore some for those, with whom you are: You may laugh with 'em, drink with 'em, dance or sing with 'em; yet think of me. You may discourse of a Thousand indifferent Things with 'em, and at the same time, still think of me. If the Subject be any beautiful Lady, whom they praise, either for her Person, Wit, or Virtue; you may apply it to me: And if you dare not say it aloud, at least, let your Heart answer in this Language: 
Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise,  
Can give us Love a Thousand Ways.  
Her Wit and Beauty charming are;  
But still, my Iris is more fair.   
No Body ever spoke before me, of a faithful Lover, but I still sighed, and thought of Damon: And ever, when they tell me Tales of Love, any soft pleasing Intercourses of an Amour; Oh! with what Pleasure do I listen; and with Pleasure answer 'em, either with my Eyes, or Tongue— 
That Lover may his Silvia warm;  
But cannot, like my Damon, charm.   
If I have not all those excellent Qualities, you meet with in those beautiful People, I am, however, very glad, that Love prepossesses your Heart to my Advantage: And I need not tell you, Damon, that a true Lover ought to persuade himself, that all other Objects ought to give place to her, for whom his Heart sighs— But see, my Cupid tells you, 'tis One a-clock, and that you ought not to be longer from your Apartment: Where, while you are Undressing, I will give you leave to say to yourself— 

The Regret.  

Alas! And must the Sun decline,  
Before it have informed my Eyes  
Of all that's Glorious, all that's Fine;  
Of all I sigh for, all I prise?  
How joyful were those happy Days,  
When Iris spread her charming Rays,  
Did my unwearied Heart inspire,  
With never-ceasing awful Fire:  
And every Minute gave me new Desire!   

But now, alas! All dead and pale,  
Like Flowers, that whither in the Shade;  
Where no kind Sunbeams can prevail,  
To raise its cold, and fading Head;  
I sink into my useless Bed.  
I grasp the senseless Pillow, as I lie;  
A Thousand times, in vain, I sighing, cry;  
" Ah! Would to Heaven, my Iris were as nigh!      

1 A-Clock.  
Impossibility to Sleep.  
YOu have been up long enough; and Cupid, who takes Care of your Health, tells you, 'tis time for you to go to Bed. Perhaps you may not sleep as soon as you are laid; and possibly, you may pass an Hour in Bed, before you shut your Eyes. In this Impossibility of Sleeping, I think it very proper for you to imagine, what I am doing; where I am. Let your Fancy take a little Journey then, invisible, to observe my Actions, and my Conduct. You will find me, sitting alone in my Cabinet (for I am one that do not love to go to Bed early) and will find me very uneasy, and pensive; pleased with none of those Things, that so well entertain others. I eat all Conversation, as far as Civility will allow; and find no Satisfaction, like being alone; where my Soul may, without Interruption, converse with Damon. I sigh; and sometimes, you will see my Cheeks wet with Tears, that insensibly glide down, at a Thousand Thoughts, that present themselves soft, and afflicting. I partake of all your Inquietude. On other Things, I think with Indifference, if ever my Thoughts do stray from the more agreeable Object. I find, however, a little Sweetness in this Thought, that, during my Absence, your Heart thinks of me, when mine sighs for you. Perhaps, I am mistaken; and that, at the same Time, that you are the Entertainment of all my Thoughts, I am no more in yours: And perhaps, you are thinking of those Things, that immortalize the Young, and Brave; either by those Glories, the Muses flatter you with; or that of Bellova, and the God of War; and Serving now a Monarch, whose Glorious Acts in Arms, has outgone all the seigned, and real Heroes of any Age; who has, himself, outdone whatever History can produce, of Greatand Brave; and set so Illustrious an Example to the Under-World, that it is not impossible, as much a Lover as you are, but you are thinking now, how to render yourself worthy the Glory of such a Godlike Master, by projecting a Thousand Things of projecting, and Danger. And though, I confess, such Thoughts are proper for your Youth, your Quality, and the Place you have the Honour to hold, under our Sovereign; yet, let me tell you, Damon, you will not be without Inquietude, if you think of either being a delicate Poet, or a brave Warrior; for Love will still interrupt your Glory, however you may think to divert him; either by Writing, or Fight. And you ought to remember these Verses,  

Love and Glory.  

Beneath the kind protecting Lawrel's Shade,  
For sighing Lovers, and for Warriors made,  
The soft Adonis, and rough Mars were laid.   

Both were designed to take their Rest;  
But Love, the Gentle Boy, oppressed,  
And false Alarms shook the slern Hero's Breast.   

This, thinks to soften all his Toils of War,  
In the dear Arms of the obliging Fair:  
And That, by Hunting, to divert his Care.   

All Day, o'er Hills and Plains, Wild Beasts he chased;  
Swift, as the flying Winds, his eager Haste,  
In vain! The God of Love pursues as fast.   

But Oh! No Sports, no Toils divertive prove:  
The Evening still returns him to the Grove,  
To sigh, and languish for the Queen of Love.   

Where Eulogies, and Sonnets, he does frame;  
And to the listening Echoes sighs her Name;  
And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame.   

The Warrior, in the Dusty Camp all Day;  
With rattling Drums, and Trumpets, does essay,  
To fright the Tender Flattering God away.   

But still, alas, in vain! What ere Delight,  
What Care he takes the wanton Boy to fright;  
Love still revenges it at Night.   

'Tis then, he baunts the Royal Tent;  
The sleeping Hours, in Sighs are spent;  
And all his Resolutions does prevent.   

In all his Pains, Love mixed his Smart:  
In every Wound, he feels a Dart;  
And the soft God is trembling in his Heart.   

Then he retires to shady Groves;  
And there, in vain, he seeks Repose;  
And strives to fly from what he cannot lose.   

While thus he lay, Bellona, came;  
And with a generous fierce Disdain,  
Upbraids him with his feeble Flame.   

Arise! The World's great Terror, and their Care!  
Behold the glittering Host from far,  
That waits the Conduct of the God of War.   

Beneath these Glorious Laurels, which were made,  
To crown the noble Victor's Head;  
Why thus Supinely art thou laid?   

Why on that Face, where Awful Terror grew,  
Thy Sun-parcht Cheeks; why do I view  
The shining Tracts of falling Tears bedew?   

What God has wrought these universal Harms?  
What fatal Nymph; What fatal Charms  
Has made the Hero deaf to War's Alarms?   

Now let the Conquering Ensigns up be furled:  
Learn to be gay, be soft, and curled;  
And Idle, lose the Empire of the World.   

In fond Effeminate Delights go on:  
Lose all the Glories, you have won:  
Bravely resolve to love, and be undone.   

'Tis thus the Martial Virgin pleads:  
Thus she the Amorous God persuades,  
To fly from Venus, and the flowery Meads.    
You see here, that Poets and Warriors are oftentimes in Affliction, even under the Shades of their Protecting-Lawrels; and let the Nymphs and Virgins sing what they please to their Memory, under the Myrtles, and on Flowery Beds; much better Days, than in the Campagne. Nor do the Crowns of Glory surpass those of Love: The First is but an empty Name, which is won, kept, and lost with Hazard; but Love more nobly employs a brave Soul, and all his Pleasures are solid and lasting; and when one has a worthy Object of one's Flame, Glory accompanies Love too. But go to sleep, the Hour is come; and 'tis now, that your Soul ought to be entertained in Dreams.   

2 A-Clock.  
Conversation in Dreams.  
I Doubt not, but you will think it very bold and arbitrary, that my Watch should pretend to rule even your sleeping Hours, and that my Cupid should govern your very Dreams; which are but Thoughts disordered, in which Reason has no Part; Chimeras of the Imagination, and no more: But though my Watch does not pretend to counsel unreasonably, yet you must allow it here; if not to pass the Bounds, at least, to advance to the utmost Limits of it. I am assured, that after having thought so much of me in the Day, you will think of me also in the Night. And the first Dream my Watch permits you to make, is to think you are in Conversation with me.  
Imagine, Damon, that you are talking to me of your Passion, with all the Transport of a Lover; and that I hear you with Satisfaction: That all my Looks and Blushes, while you are speaking, gives you new Hopes, and Assurances, that you are not indifferent to me; and that I give you a Thousand Testimonies of my Tenderness, all Innocent, and Obliging.  
While you are saying all that Love can dictate, all that Wit and good Manners can invent, and all that I wish to hear from Damon, believe, in this Dream, all flattering and dear; that after having showed me the Ardour of your Flame, that I confess to you the Bottom of my Heart, and all the loving Secrets there; that I give you Sigh for Sigh, Tenderness for Tenderness, Heart for Heart, and Pleasure for Pleasure. And I would have your Sense of this Dream so perfect, and your Joy foe entire, that if it happen you should awake, with the Satisfaction from this Dream, you should find your Heart still panting with the foft Pleasure of the dear deceiving Transport, and you should be ready to cry out— 
Ah! How sweet it is to dream,  
When charming Iris is the Theme!  For such, I wish, my Damon, your sleeping, and your waking Thoughts should render me to your Heart.   

3 A-Clock.  
Capricious Suffering in Dreams.  
IT is but just, to mix a little Chagrin with these Pleasures, a little Bitter with your Sweet; you may be cloyed with too long an Imagination of my Favours: And I will have your Fancy in Dreams, represent me to it, as the most capricious Maid in the World. I know, here you will accuse my Watch, and blame me with unnecessary Cruelty, as you will call it; but Lovers have their little Ends, their little Advantages, to pursue by Methods wholly unaccountable to all, but that Heart that contrives 'em: And, as good a Lover as I believe you, you will not enter into my Design at first Sight; and though, on reasonable Thoughts, you will be satisfied with this Conduct of mine, at its first Approach, you will be ready to cry out!— 

The Request.  

Oh Iris! Let my sleeping Hours be fraught  
With Joys, which you deny my waking Thought.  
Is't not enough, you absent are?  
Is't not enough, I sigh all Day;  
And languish out my Life in Care:  
To every Passion made a Prey?  
I burn with Love, and soft Desire;  
I rave with Jealousy and Fear:  
All Day, for Ease, my Soul I tyre;  
In vain I search it every where:  
It dwells not with the Witty, or the Fair.  
It is not in the Camp, or Court;  
In Business, Music, or in Sport:  
The Plays, the Park, and Mall afford  
No more than the dull Basset-board.  
The Beauties in the Drawing-room,  
With all their Sweetness, all their Bloom,  
No more my faithful Eyes invite,  
Nor rob my Iris of a Sigh, or Glance;  
Unless soft Thoughts of her incite  
A Smile, or trivial Complaisance.   

Then since my Days so anxious prove,  
Ah, cruel Tyrant! Give  
A little Loose to Joys in Love;  
And let your Damon live.  
Let him in Dreams be happy made;  
And let his Sleep some Bliss provide:  
The nicest Maid may yield, in Night's dark Shade,  
What she so long, by Daylight, had denied.  
There let me think, you present are;  
And court my Pillow, for my Fair.  
There let me find you kind, and that you give  
All that a Man of Honour dares receive.  
And may my Eyes eternal Watches keep,  
Rather than want that Pleasure, when I sleep.     
Some such Complaint as this, I know you will make; but, Damon, if the little Quarrels of Lovers render the reconciling Moment's so infinitely Charming, you must needs allow, that these little Chagrins in capricious Dreams, must awaken you to more Joy, to find 'em but Dreams, than if you had met with no Disorder there. 'Tis for this Reason, that I would have you suffer a little Pain, for a coming Pleasure; nor, indeed, is it possible for you to escape the Dreams, my Cupid points you out. You shall dream, that I have a Thousand Foiblesses, something of the Lightness of my Sex; that my Soul is employed in a Thousand Vanities; that, (proud and fond of Lovers) I make Advances for the Glory of a Slave, without any other Interest, or Design, than that of being adored. I will give you leave to think my Heart fickle; and that, far from resigning it to any one, I lend it only for a Day, or an Hour, and take it back at Pleasure; that I am a very Co●●●t, even to Impertinence.  
All this I give you leave to think, and to offend me; but 'tis in Sleep only, that I permit it; for I would never pardon you the least Offence of this Nature, if in any other Kind, than in a Dream. Nor is it enough Affliction to you, to imagine me thus idly vain; but you are to pass on, to a Hundred more capricious Humours; as that I exact of you a Hundred unjust Things; that I pretend, you should break off with all your Friends, and, for the future, have none at all; that I will, myself, do those Things, which I violently condemn in you; and that I will have for others, as well as you, that tender Friendship that resembles Love; or rather, that Love, which People call Friendship; and that I will not, after all, have you dare complain on me.  
In fine, be as ingenious as you please, to torment yourself; and believe, that I am become unjust, ungrateful, and insensible: But were I so indeed, O Damon! consider your awaking Heart, and tell me; Would your Love stand the Proof of all these Faults in me? But know, that I would have you believe, I have none of these Weaknesses, though I am not wholly without Faults, but those will be excusable to a Lover; and this Notion I have of a perfect one; 
What e'er fantastic Humours rule the Fair,  
She's still the Lover's Doteage, and his Care.    

4 A-Clock.  
Jealousy in Dreams.  
DO not think, Damon, to wake yet; for I design you shall yet suffer a little more: Jealousy must now possess you; that Tyrant over the Heart, that compels your very Reason, and seduces all your good Nature. And in this Dream, you must believe That in Sleeping, which you could not do me the Injustice to do, when awake. And here you must explain all my Actions to the utmost Disadvantage: Nay, I will wish, that the Force of this Jealousy may be so extreme, that it may make you languish in Grief, and be overcome with Anger.  
You shall now imagine, that one of your Rivals is with me, interrupting all you say, or hindering all you would say; that I have no Attention to what you say aloud to me, but that I incline my Ear, to hearken to all that he whispers to me. You shall repine, that he pursues me every where; and is eternally at your Heels, if you approach me: That I caress him with Sweetness in my Eyes, and that Vanity in my Heart, that possesses the Humours of almost all the Fair; that is, to believe it greatly for my Glory, to have abundance of Rivals, for my Lovers. I know, you love too well, not to be extremely uneasy in the Company of a Rival, and to have one perpetually near me; for let him be beloved, or not, by the Mistress, it must be confessed, a Rival is a very troublesome Person: But, to afflict you to the utmost, I will have you imagine, that my Eyes approve of all his Thoughts; that they flatter him with Hopes, and that I have taken away my Heart from you, to make a Present of it to this more lucky Man. You shall suffer, while possessed with this Dream, all that a cruel Jealousy can make a tender Soul suffer.  

The Torment.  
O Jealousy! Thou Passion most ingrate!  
Tormenting as Despair, envious as Hate!  
Spiteful as Witchcraft, which th' Invoker harms:  
Worse than the Wretch that suffers by its Charms.  
Thou subtle Poison in the Fancy bred;  
Diffused through every Vein, the Heart, and Head;  
And over all, like wild Contagion, spread.  
Thou, whose sole Property is to destroy;  
Thou Opposite to Good, Antipathy to Joy;  
Whose Attributes are cruel, Rage, and Fire;  
Reason debauched, false Sense, and mad Desire.   
In sine, It is a Passion, that ruffles all the Senses, and disorders the whole Frame of Nature. It makes one hear and see, what was never spoke, and what never was in view. 'Tis the Bane of Health and Beauty, an unmannerly Intruder; and an Evil of Life, worse than Death. She is a very cruel Tyrant in the Heart; she possesses, and pierces it with infinite Unquiets: And we may lay it down, as a certain Maxim,— 
She that would wreck a Lover's Heart  
To the Extent of Cruelty,  
Must his Tranquillity subvert  
To torturing Jealousy.   
I speak too sensibly of this Passion, not to have loved well enough, to have been touched with it: And you shall be this unhappy Lover, Damon, during this Dream; in which, nothing shall present itself to your tumultuous Thoughts, that shall not bring its Pain. You shall here pass and re-pass a Hundred Designs, that shall confound one another. In fine, Damon, Anger, Hatred, and Revenge shall surround your Heart.  

There they shall, all together reign  
With mighty Force, with mighty Pain;  
In Spite of Reason, in Contempt of Love:  
Sometimes by Turns, sometimes united move.    

5 A-Clock.  
Quarrels in Dreams.  
I Perceive you are not able to suffer all this Injustice, nor can I permit it any longer; and though you commit no Crime yourself, yet you believe, in this Dream, that I complain of Injuries you do my Fame; and that I am extremely angry with a Jealousy so prejudicial to my Honour. Upon this Belief, you accuse me of Weakness; you resolve to see me no more, and are making a Thousand feeble Vows against Love! You esteem me as a false One, and resolve to cease loving the vain Coquet; and will say to me, as a certain Friend of yours said to his false Mistress,  

The Inconstant.  

Though Silvia, you are very fair,  
Yet disagreeable to me:  
And since you so inconstant are,  
Your Beauty's damned with Levity.  
Your Wit, your most offensive Arms,  
For want of Judgement, wants its Charms.   

To every Lover, that is new,  
All new and charming you surprise;  
But when your fickle Mind they view,  
They eat the Danger of your Eyes.  
Should you a Miracle of Beauty show;  
Yet you're inconstant, and will still be so.    
'Tis thus you will think of me: And in fine, Damon, during this Dream, we are in a perpetual State of War.  

Thus both resolve to break their Chain,  
And think to do't without much Pain:  
But Oh! Alas! We strive in vain.   

For Lovers, of themselves, can nothing do:  
There must be the Consent of two:  
You give it me, and I must give it you.   
And if we shall never be free, till we acquit one another, this Tie between you and I, Damon, is likely to last as long as we live: Therefore in vain you endeavour, but can never attain your End: And in Conclusion, you will say, in thinking of me; 
Oh! How at Ease my Heart would live,  
Could I renounce this Fugitive;  
This dear, (but false) attracting Maid,  
That has her Vows and Faith betrayed!  
Reason would have it so; but Love  
Dares not the dangerous Trial prove.   
Do not be angry then, for this afflicting Hour is drawing to an End, and you ought not to despair of coming into my absolute Favour again.  

Then do not let your murmuring Heart,  
Against my Interest, take your Part.  
The Feud was raised by Dreams, all false and vain,  
And the next Sleep shall reconcile again.    

6 A-Clock.  
Accommodation in Dreams.  
THough the angry Lovers force themselves, all they can, to chase away the troublesome Tenderness of the Heart, in the height of their Quarrels, Love sees all their Sufferings, pities and redresses 'em: And when we begin to cool, and a soft Repentance follows the Chagrin of the Love-Quarrel, 'tis then, that Love takes the Advantage of both Hearts, and renews the charming Friendship more forcibly than ever, puts a stop to all our Feuds, and renders the Peacemaking Minutes, the most dear and tender part of our Life. How pleasing 'tis to see your Rage dissolve! How sweet, how soft is every Word, that pleads for Pardon at my Feet! 'Tis there, that you tell me, your very Sufferings are over-paid, when I but assure you from my Eyes, that I will forget your Crime: And your Imagination shall here present me, the most sensible of your past Pain, that you can wish; and that, all my Anger being vanished, I give you a Thousand Marks of my Faith and Gratitude; and lastly, to crown all, that we again make new Vows to one another, of inviolable Peace.  

After these Debates of Love,  
Lovers Thousand Pleasures prove;  
Which they ever think to taste,  
Tho' oftentimes they do not last.   
Enjoy then all the Pleasures, that a Heart that is very amorous, and very tender, can enjoy. Think no more on those Inquietudes that you have suffered, bless Love for his Favours, and thank me for my Graces; and resolve to endure any thing, rather than enter upon any new Quarrels. And however dear the reconciling Moment's are, there proceeds a great deal of Evil from these little frequent Quarrels; and I think, the best counsel we can follow, is to avoid 'em, as near as we can: And if we cannot, but that, in spite of Love, and good Understanding, they should break out, we ought to make as speedy a Peace as possible; for 'tis not good to grate the Heart too long, lest it grow hardened insensibly, and lose its native Temper. A few Quarrels there must be in Love; Love cannot support itself without 'em; and besides the Joy of an Accommodation, Love becomes by it more strongly united, and more charming. Therefore let the Lover receive this, as a certain Receipt against declining Love.  

Love reconciled.  

He that would have the Passion be  
Entire between the Amorous Pair,  
Let not the little Feuds of Jealousy  
Be carried on to a Despair:  
That paul the Pleasure he would raise;  
The Fire that he would blow, allays.   

When Understandings false arise,  
When misinterpreted your Thought;  
If false Conjectures of your Smiles and Eyes  
Be up to baneful Quarrel wrought;  
Let Love the kind Occasion take,  
And straight Accommodation make.   

The sullen Lover, long unkind,  
Ill-natured, hard to reconcile,  
Loses the Heart he had inclined;  
Love cannot undergo long Toil:  
He's soft and sweet, not born to bear  
The rough Fatigues of painful War.     

7 A-Clock.  
Divers Dreams.  
BEhold, Damon, the last Hour of your Sleep, and of my Watch. She leaves you at liberty now, and you may choose your Dreams: Trust 'em to your Imaginations, give a Loose to Fancy, and let it rove at Will; provided, Damon, it be always guided by a respectful Love. For thus far I pretend to give Bounds to your Imagination, and will not have it pass beyond'em: Take heed, in Sleeping, you give no Ear to a flattering Cupid, that will favour your slumbering Minutes, with Lies too pleasing and vain: You are discreet enough, when you are awake; Will you not be so in Dreams?  
Damon, awake: My Watch's Course is done. After this, you cannot be ignorant of what you ought to do, during my Absence. I did not believe it necessary to caution you about Balls and Comedies: You know, a Lover, deprived of his Mistress, goes seldom there. But if you cannot handsomely avoid these Diversions, I am not so unjust a Mistress, to be angry with you for it. Go, if Civility, or other Duties, oblige you: I will only forbid you, in Consideration of me, not to be too much satisfied with those Pleasures; but see 'em so, as the World may have Reason to say, you do not seek 'em; you do not make a Business, or a Pleasure of 'em; and that 'tis Complaisance, and not Inclination, that carries you thither. Seem rather negligent, than concerned at any Thing there; and let every Part of you say, Iris is not here.  
I say nothing to you neither, of your Duty elsewhere; I am satisfied, you know it too well, and have too great a Veneration for your Glorious Master, to neglect any part of that, for even Love itself! And I very well know, how much you love to be eternally near his Illustrious Person; and that you scarce prefer your Mistress before him, in point of Love: In all things else, I give him leave to take place of Iris, in the noble Heart of Damon.  
I am satisfied, you pass your Time well now at Windsor, for you adore that Place; and 'tis not, indeed, without great Reason; for 'tis, most certainly, now rendered, the most glorious Palace in the Christian World. And had our late Gracious Sovereign of blessed Memory had no other Miracles and Wonders of his Life and Reign, to have immortalised his Fame, (of which there shall remain a Thousand to Posterity:) This noble Structure alone, this Building (almost Divine) would have Eternised the great Name of Glorious Charles the Second, till the World moulder again to its old Confusion, its first Chaos. And the Paintings of the famous Vario, and noble Carving of the unimitable Gibon, shall never die; but remain, to tell succeeding Ages, that all Arts and Learning were not confined to ancient Rome, and Greece; but that England too could boast its mightiest Share. Nor is the Inside of this magnificent Structure, immortalised with so many eternal Images of the Illustrious Charles and Katherine, more to be admired, than the wondrous Prospects without. The stupendious Height, on which the famous Pile is built, renders the Fields, and Flowery Meads below, the Woods, the Thickets, and the winding Streams, the most delightful Object, that ever Nature produced. Beyond all these, and far below, in an inviting Vale, the venerable College, an old, but noble Building, raises itself, in the midst of all the Beauties of Nature; high-grown Trees, fruitful Plains, purling Rivulets, and spacious Gardens; adorned with all Variety of Sweets, that can delight the Senses.  
At farther distance yet, on an Ascent, almost as high as that to the Royal Structure, you may behold that famous and noble Clifdon rise; a Palace erected by the Illustrious Duke of Buckingham: Who will leave this wondrous Piece of Architecture, to inform the future World, of the Greatness and Delicacy of his Mind; it being, for its Situation, its Prospects, and its marvellous Contrivances, one of the finest Villas of the World; at least, were it finished, as begun; and would sufficiently declare the Magnific Soul of the Hero, that caused it to be built, and contrived all its Fineness. And this makes up not the least Part of the beautiful Prospect from the Palace-Royal, while on the other side, lies spread a fruitful, and delightful Park and Forest, well stored with Deer, and all that make the Prospect charming; fine Walks, Groves, distant Valleys, Downs, and Hills, and all that Nature could invent, to furnish out a quiet, soft Retreat, for the most Fair, and most Charming of Queens, and the most Heroic, Good, and Just of Kings: And these Groves alone, are fit and worthy to divert such Earthly Gods.  
Nor can Heaven, Nature, or Humane Art contrive an Addition to this Earthly Paradise, unless those great Inventors of the Age, Sir Samuel Morland, or Sir Robert Gorden, could, by the power of Engines, convey the Water so into the Park and Castle, as to furnish it with delightful Fountains, both useful and beautiful. These are only wanting, to render the Place All Perfection, without Exception.  
This, Damon, is a long Digression from the Business of my Heart; but you know, I am so in Love with that charming Court, that when you gave me an Occasion, by your being there now, but to name the Place, I could not forbear transgressing a little, in favour of its wondrous Beauty; and the rather, because I would, in recounting it, give you to understand, how many fine Objects there are, besides the Ladies that adorn it, to employ your vacant Moment's in; and hope you will, without my Instructions, pass a great part of your idle Time, in surveying these Prospects; and give that Admiration you should pay to living Beauty, to those more venerable Monuments of everlasting Fame.  
Neither need I, Damon, assign you your waiting Times; your Honour, Duty, Love, and Obedience will instruct you, when to be near the Person of the King; and I believe, you will omit no part of that Devoir. You ought to establish your Fortune, and your Glory: For I am not of the Mind of those Critical Lovers, who believe it a very hard Matter to reconcile Love and Interest; to adore a Mistress, and serve a Master at the same time. And I have heard those, who, on this Subject, say, Let a Man be never so careful in these double Duties, 'tis Ten to One, but he loses his Fortune, or his Mistress. These are Errors that I condemn: And I know, that Love and Ambition are not incompatible; but that a brave Man may preserve all his Duties to his Sovereign, and his Passion, and his Respect for his Mistress. And this is my Notion of it.  

Love and Ambition.  

The Noble Lover, who would prove  
Uncommon in Address;  
Let him Ambition join with Love;  
With Glory, Tenderness:  
But let the Virtues so be mixed,  
That when to Love he goes,  
Ambition may not come betwixt,  
Nor Love his Power oppose.  
The vacant Hours from softer Sport,  
Let him give up to Interest, and the Court.   

'Tis Honour shall his Business be,  
And Love, his noblest Play:  
Those two should never disagree;  
For both make either Gay.  
Love without Honour, were too mean  
For any gallant Heart;  
And Honour singly, but a Dream,  
Where Love must have no Part.  
A Flame like this, you cannot fear,  
Where Glory claims an equal Share.    
Such a Passion, Damon, can never make you quit any Part of your Duty to your Prince. And the Monarch, you serve, is so gallant a Master, that the Inclination you have to his Person, obliges you to serve him, as much as your Duty; for Damon's Loyal Soul loves the Man, and adores the Monarch; for he is certainly, all that compels both, by a charming Force and Goodness from all Mankind.  

The King.  

Darling of Mars! Bellona's Care!  
The second Deity of War!  
Delight of Heaven, and Joy of Earth!  
Born for great and wondrous Things!  
Destined, at his Auspicious Birth,  
T'out-do the numerous Race of long-past Kings.   

Best Representative of Heaven;  
To whom its chiefest Attributes are given!  
Great, Pious, Steadfast, Just, and Brave!  
To Vengeance slow, but swift to save!  
Dispencing Mercy all abroad!  
Soft and Forgiving, as a God   

Thou Saving Angel, who preservest the Land  
From the Just Rage of the Avenging Hand:  
Stopped the dire Plague, that o'er the Earth was hurled!  
And sheathing thy Almighty Sword,  
Calmed the wild Fears of a distracted World,  
(As Heaven first made it) with a Sacred Word!    
But I will stop the low Flight of my humble Muse; who, when she is upon the Wing, on this Glorious Subject, knows no Bounds. And all the World has agreed to say so much of the Virtues and Wonders of this great Monarch, that they have left me nothing new to say; though indeed, he every day gives us new Themes of his growing Greatness; and we see nothing that equals him, in our Age. Oh! How happy are we, to obey his Laws; for he is the greatest of Kings, and the best of Men!  
You will be very unjust, Damon, if you do not confess, I have acquitted myself like a Maid of Honour, of all the Obligations I owe you, upon the Account of the Discretion I lost to you. If it be not valuable enough, I am generous enough to make it good: And since I am so willing to be just, you ought to esteem me, and to make it your chiefest Care to preserve me yours; for I believe, I shall deserve it, and wish you should believe so too. Remember me, write to me, and observe punctually all the Motions of my Watch: The more you regard it, the better you will like it; and whatever you think of it at first sight, 'tis no ill Present. The Invention is soft and gallant; and Germany, so celebrated for rare Watches, can produce nothing to equal this.  

Damon, my Watch is just, and new:  
And all a Lover ought to do,  
My Cupid faithfully will show.  
And every Hour he renders there,  
Except L'heure du Bergere.     
The End of the Watch.   

THE CASE FOR THE WATCH.  

Damon to Iris.  
EXpect not, O charming Iris! that I should choose Words to thank you in; (Words, that least Part of Love, and lest the Business of the Lover;) but will say all, and every thing, that a tender Heart can dictate, to make an Acknowledgement for so dear and precious a Present, as this of your charming Watch; while all I can say, will but too dully express my Sense of Gratitude, my Joy, and the Pleasure I receive in the mighty Favour. I confess the Present too rich, too gay, and too magnificent for my Expectation; and though my Love and Faith deserve it, yet my humbler Hope never durst carry me to a Wish of so great a Bliss, so great an Acknowledgement from the Maid I adore! The Materials are glorious, the Work delicate, and the Movement just; and even gives Rules to my Heart, who shall observe very exactly, all that the Cupid remarks to me, even to the Minutes, which I will point with Sighs, though I am obliged to 'em there, but every Half-hour.—  
You tell me, fair Iris, that I ought to preserve it tenderly, and yet you have sent it me without a Case. But that I may obey you justly, and keep it dear to me, as long as I live, I will give it a Case of my Fashion: It shall be delicate, and suitable to the fine Present; of such Materials too. But because I would have it perfect, I will consult your admirable Wit, and Invention, in an Affair of so curious a Consequence.  

The Figure of the Case.  
I Design to give it the Figure of a Heart. Does not your Watch, Iris, rule the Heart? It was your Heart that contrived it, and 'twas your Heart you consulted, in all the Management of it; and 'twas your Heart that brought it to so fine a Conclusion. The Heart never acts without Reason, and all the Heart projects, it performs with Pleasure.  
Your Watch, my lovely Maid, has explained to me a World of rich Secrets of Love: And where should Thoughts so sacred be stored, but in the Heart, where all the Secrets of the Soul are treasured up; and of which, only Love alone can take a View? 'Tis thence he takes his Sighs and Tears, and all his little Flatteries, and Arts to please. All his fine Thoughts, and all his mighty Raptures, nothing is so proper as the Heart, to preserve it; nothing so worthy as the Heart, to contain it; and it concerns my Interest too much, not to be infinitely careful of so dear a Treasure: And, believe me, charming Iris, I will never part with it.  

The Votary.  

Fair Goddess of my just Desire,  
Inspirer of my softest Fire!  
Since you, from out the numerous Throng,  
That to your Altars do belong,  
To me the sacred Mystery have revealed,  
From all my Rival Worshippers concealed;  
And touched my Soul with Heavenly Fire:  
Refined it from its grosser Sense,  
And wrought it to a higher Excellence;  
It can no more return to Earth,  
Like Things that thence receive their Birth:  
But still aspiring, upward move,  
And teach the World, new Flights of Love.  
New Arts of Secrecy shall learn,  
And render Youth discreet in Love's Concern.   

In his soft Heart, to hide the charming Things,  
A Mistress whispers to his Ear;  
And every tender Sigh she brings,  
Mix with his Soul, and hide it there.  
To bear himself so well in Company,  
That if his Mistress present be,  
It may be thought by all the Fair,  
Each in his Heart does claim a Share,  
And all are more beloved than She.   

But when with the dear Maid apart,  
Then at her Feet the Lover lies;  
Opens his Soul, shows all his Heart,  
While Joy is dancing in his Eyes.  
Then all that Honour may, or take, or give,  
They both distribute, both receive.  
A Looker on would spoil a Lover's Joy;  
For Love's a Game, where only Two can play.  
And 'tis the hardest of Love's Mysteries,  
To feign Love where it is not, hide it where it is.    
After having told you, my lovely Iris, that I design to put your Watch into a Heart, I ought to show you the Ornaments of the Case. I do intend to have 'em Crowned Ciphers. I do not mean those Crowns of Vanity, which are put indifferently on all sorts of Ciphers: No, I must have such, as may distinguish mine from the rest; and may be true Emblems of what I would represent. My four Ciphers, therefore, shall be crowned with these four Wreaths; of Olive, Laurel, Myrtle, and Roses: And the Letters that begin the Names of Iris and Damon, shall compose the Ciphers; though I must intermix some other Letters, that bear another Sense, and have another Signification.   

The first cipher.  
THe first cipher is composed of an I, and a D, which are joined by an L, and an E: Which signifies, Love Extreme. And 'tis but just, O adorable Iris! that Love should be mixed with our Ciphers, and that Love alone should be the Union of 'em.  

Love ought alone the Mystic Knot to tie;  
Love, that great Master of all Arts;  
And this dear cipher, is to let you see,  
Love unites Names, as well as Hearts.   
Without this charming Union, our Souls could not communicate those invisible Sweetnesses, which complete the Felicity of Lovers; and which, the most tender, and passionate Expressions are too feeble to make us comprehend. But, my adorable Iris, I am contented with the vast Pleasure I feel, in Loving well, without the Care of Expressing it well; if you will imagine my Pleasure, without expressing it. For I confess, 'twould be no Joy to me, to adore you, if you did not perfectly believe, I did adore you. Nay, though you loved me, if you had no Faith in me, I should languish, and love in as much Pain, as if you scorned, and at the same time believed I died for you. For surely, Iris, 'tis a greater Pleasure to please, than to be pleased; and the Glorious Power of Giving, is infinitely a greater Satisfaction, than that of Receiving; there is so great and Godlike a Quality in it. I would have your Belief therefore, equal to my Passion, extreme; as indeed, all Love should be, or it cannot bear that Divine Name: It can pass but for an indifferent Assection. And these Ciphers ought to make the World find all the noble Force of delicate Passion. For, O my Iris! what would Love signify, if we did not love fervently. Sisters and Brothers love; Friends and Relations have Affections; but where the Souls are joined, which are filled with Eternal soft Wishes, Oh there is some Excess of Pleasure, which cannot be expressed!  
Your Looks, your dear obliging Words, and your charming Letters have sufficiently persuaded me of your Tenderness; and you might surely see the Excess of my Passion, by my Cares, my Sighs, and entire Resignation to your Will. I never think of Iris, but my Heart feels double Flames, and pants and heaves with double Sighs; and whose Force makes its Ardours known, by a Thousand Transports: And they are very much too blame, to give the Name of Love to feeble, easy Passions: Such Transitory Tranquil Inclinations are, at best, but Wellwishers to Love; and a Heart that has such Heats as those, ought not to put itself into the Rank of those nobler Victims, that are offered at the Shrine of Love. But our Souls, Iris, burn with a more glorious Flame, that lights and conducts us beyond a Possibility of losing one another. 'Tis this that flatters all my Hopes: 'Tis this alone makes me believe myself worthy of Iris: And let her judge of its Violence, by the Greatness of its Splendour.  
Does not a Passion of this Nature, so true, so ardent, deserve to be crowned? And will you wonder to see, over this cipher, a Wreath of Myrtles, those Boughs, so sacred to the Queen of Love, and so worshipped by Lovers? 'Tis with these soft Wreaths, that those are crowned, who understand how to love well, and faithfully.  

The Smiles, the Graces, and the Sports,  
That in the sacred Groves maintain their Courts,  
Are with these Myrtles crowned.  
Thither the Nymphs, their Garlands bring;  
Their Beauties, and their Praises sing,  
While Echoes do the Songs resound.   

Love, tho' a God, with Myrtle Wreaths,  
Does his soft Temples bind.  
More valued are those consecrated Leaves,  
Than the bright Wealth, in Eastern Rocks confined:  
And Crowns of Glory less Ambition move,  
Than those more sacred Diadems of Love.    

The second cipher  
IS crowned with Olives; and I add to the two Letters of our Names, an R and an L, for Reciprocal Love. Every time that I have given you, O lovely Iris! Testimonies of my Passion, I have been so blest, as to receive some from your Bounty; and you have been pleased to flatter me with a Belief, that I was not indifferent to you. I dare therefore say, that being honoured with the Glory of your Tenderness and Care, jought, as a Trophy of my illustrious Conquest, to adorn the Watch with a cipher, that is so advantageous to me. Ought I not to esteem myself the most fortunate and happy of Mankind, to have exchanged my Heart with so charming and admirable a Person as Iris? Ah! how sweet, how precious is the Change; and how vast a Glory arrives to me from it! Oh! you must not wonder, if my Soul abandon itself to a Thousand Ecstasies! In the Merchandise of Hearts, Oh! how dear it is, to receive as much as one gives; and barter Heart for Heart! Oh! I would not receive mine again, for all the Crowns the Universe contains! Nor ought you, my Adorable, make any Vows, or Wishes, ever to retrieve yours; or show the least Repentance for the Blessing you have given me. The Exchange we made, was confirmed by a noble Faith; and you ought to believe, you have bestowed it well, since you are paid for it, a Heart that is so conformable to yours, so true, so just, and so full of Adoration: And nothing can be the just Recompense of Love, but Love; and to enjoy the true Felicity of it, our Hearts ought to keep an equal Motion; and, like the Scales of Justice, always hang even.  
'Tis the Property of Reciprocal Love, to make the Heart feel the Delicacy of Love, and to give the Lover all the Ease and Softness he can reasonably hope. Such a Love renders all Things advantageous and prosperous: Such a Love triumphs over all other Pleasures. And I put a Crown of Olives over the cipher of Reciprocal Love, to make known, that two Hearts, where Love is justly equal, enjoy a Peace, that nothing can disturb.  

Olives are never fading seen;  
But always flourishing, and green.  
The Emblem 'tis of Love and Peace;  
For Love that's true, will never cease:  
And Peace does Pleasure still increase.  
Joy to the World, the Peace of Kings imparts;  
And Peace in Love distributes it to Hearts.    

The third cipher.  
THe C, and the L, which are joined to the Letters of our Names in this cipher, crowned with Laurel, explains a Constant Love. It will not, my fair Iris, suffice, that my Love is extreme, my Passion violent, and my Wishes fervent, or that our Loves are reciprocal: But it ought also to be constant; for in Love, the Imagination is oftener carried to those things that may arrive, and which we wish for, than to things that Time has robbed us of: And in those agreeable Thoughts of Joys to come, the Heart takes more delight to wander, than in all those that are past; though the Remembrance of 'em are very dear, and very charming. We should be both unjust, if we were not persuaded we are possessed with a Virtue, the Use of which is so admirable; as that of Constancy. Our Loves are not of that sort, that can finish, or have End; but such a Passion, so perfect, and so constant, that it will be a Precedent for future Ages, to love perfectly; and when they would express an extreme Passion, they will say, They loved, as Damon did the charming Iris. And he that knows the Glory of Constant Love, will despise those fading Passions, those little Amusements, that serve for a Day. What Pleasure, or Dependence can one have in a Love of that sort? What Concern, What Raptures can such an Amour produce in a Soul? And what Satisfaction can one promise one's self, in playing with a false Gamester; who, though you are aware of him, in spite of all your Precaution, puts the false Dice upon you, and wins all.  

Those Eyes, that can no better Conquest make,  
Let 'em ne'er look abroad:  
Such, but the empty Name of Lovers take,  
And so profane the God.  
Better they never should pretend,  
Than e'er begun to make an End.   

Of that fond Flame, what shall we say,  
That's born and languished in a Day?  
Such short-lived Blessings cannot bring  
The Pleasure of an Envying.  
Who is't will celebrate that Flame,  
That's damned to such a scanty Fame?  
While constant Love, the Nymphs and Swains  
Still sacred make, in lasting Strains,  
And cheerful Lays, throughout the Plains.   

A constant Love knows no Decay;  
But still advancing every Day,  
Will last as long as Life can stay.  
With every Look and Smile improves,  
With the same Ardour always moves,  
With such, as Damon, charming Iris loves!   
Constant Love finds itself impossible to be shaken; it resists the Attacks of Envy, and a Thousand Accidents that endeavour to change it: Nothing can disoblige it, but a known Falseness, or Contempt: Nothing can remove it, though for a short Moment it may lie sullen and resenting, it recovers, and returns with greater Force and Joy. I therefore, with very good Reason, crown this cipher of Constant Love with a Wreath of Laurel; since such Love always triumphs over Time and Fortune, though it be not her Property to besiege; for she cannot overcome, but in defending herself; but the Victories she gains, are never the less glorious.  

For far less Conquest, we have known  
The Victor wear the Laurel Crown.  
The Triumph with more Pride let him receive;  
While those of Love, at least, more Pleasures give.    

The fourth cipher.  
PErhaps, my lovely Maid, you will not find out what I mean by the S, and the L, in this last cipher, that is crowned with Roses. I will therefore tell you, I mean Secret Love. There are very few People, who know the Nature of that Pleasure, which so divine a Love creates: And let me say what I will of it, they must feel it themselves, who would rightly understand it, and all its ravishing Sweets. But this there is a great deal of Reason to believe, the Secrecy in Love doubles the Pleasures of it. And I am so absolutely persuaded of this, that I believe all those Favours that are not kept secret, are dull and pauled, very insipid and tasteless Pleasures: And let the Favours be never so innocent, that a Lover receives from a Mistress, she ought to value 'em, set a Price upon 'em, and make the Lover pay dear; while he receives 'em with Difficulty, and sometimes with Hazard. A Lover that is not secret, but suffers every one to count his Sighs, has, at most, but a feeble Passion, such as produces sudden and transitory Desires, which die as soon as born: A true Love has not this Character; for whensoever 'tis made public, it ceases to be a Pleasure, and is only the Result of Vanity. Not that I expect, our Loves should always remain a Secret: No, I should never, at that Rate, arrive to a Blessing, which, above all the Glories of the Earth, I aspire to; but even then, there are a Thousand Joys, a Thousand Pleasures, that I shall be as careful to conceal from the foolish World, as if the whole Preservation of that Pleasure depended on my Silence; as indeed it does in a great Measure.  
To this cipher I put a Crown of Roses, which are not Flowers of a very lasting Date. And 'tis to let you see, that 'tis impossible Love can be long hid. We see every Day, with what fine Dissimulation and Pains, People conceal a Thousand Hates and Malices, Disgusts, Disobligations, and Resentments, without being able to conceal the least part of their Love; but Reputation has an Ardour, as well as Roses; and a Lover ought to esteem that, as the dearest, and tenderest Thing; not only that of his own, which is, indeed, the least part; but that of his Mistress, more valuable to him than Life. He ought to endeavour to give People no Occasion to make false Judgements of his Actions, or to give their Censures; which, most certainly, are never in the Favour of the fair Person; for likely, those false Censures are of the busy Female Sex, the Coquets of that number; whose little Spites and Railleries, joined to that fancied Wit they boast of, sets 'em at Odds with all the Beautiful, and Innocent: And how very little of that kind serves, to give the World a Faith, when a Thousand Virtues, told of the same Persons, by more credible Witnesses and Judges, shall pass unregarded; so willing and inclined is all the World to credit the Ill, and condemn the Good. And yet, Oh! what pity 'tis, we are compelled to live in Pain, to oblige this foolish scandalous World! And though we know each others Virtue and Honour, we are obliged to observe that Caution (to humour the Talking Town) which takes away so great a part of the Pleasure of Life! 'Tis therefore that, among these Roses, you will find some Thorns; by which you may imagine, that in Love, Precaution is necessary to its Secrecy: And we must restrain ourselves, upon a Thousand Occasions, with so much Care, that, O Iris! 'tis impossible to be discreet, without Pain; but 'tis a Pain, that creates a Thousand Pleasures.  

Where should a Lover hide his Joys,  
Free from Malice, free from Noise?  
Where no Envy can intrude:  
Where no busy Rival's Spy,  
Made, by Disappointment, rude,  
May inform his Jealousy.  
The Heart will their best Refuge prove;  
Which Nature meant the Cabinet of Love.   

What would a Lover not endure,  
His Mistress Fame and Honour to secure.  
Iris, the Care we take to be discreet,  
Is the dear Toil, that makes the Pleasure sweet.  
The Thorn that does the Wealth enclose,  
That with less saucy Freedom we may touch the Rose.    

The Clasp of the Watch.  
AH, charming Iris! Ah, my lovely Maid! 'Tis now in a more peculiar manner, that I require your Aid, in the Finishing of my Design, and Completing the whole Piece, to the utmost Perfection; and without your Aid, it cannot be performed. It is about the Clasp of the Watch; a Material, in all Appearance, the most trivial of any Part of it. But that it may be safe for ever, I design it the Image, or Figure of Two Hands; that fair One of the adorable Iris, joined to mine; with this Motto, Inviolable Faith: For this Case, this Heart ought to be shut up by this Eternal Clasp. Oh, there is nothing so necessary as this! Nothing can secure Love, but Faith.  
That Virtue ought to be a Guard to all the Heart thinks, and all the Mouth utters: Nor can Love say, he triumphs without it. And when that remains not in the Heart, all the rest deserves no Regard. Oh! I have not loved so ill, to leave one Doubt upon your Soul. Why then, will you want that Faith? O unkind Charmer, that my Passion, and my Services so justly merit!  

When two Hearts entirely love,  
And in one Sphere of Honour move,  
Each maintains the other's Fire,  
With a Faith that is entire.  
For what heedless Touth bestows  
On a faithless Maid, his Vows.  
Faith without Love, bears virtue's Price;  
But Love, without her Mixture, is a Vice.   

Love, like Religion, still should be,  
In the Foundation, firm and true:  
In Points of Faith, should still agree:  
Tho' Innovations vain and new  
(Love's little Quarrels) may arise;  
In Fundamentals still they're just and wise.   

Then, charming Maid, be sure of this:  
Allow me Faith as well as Love;  
Since that alone affords no Bliss,  
Unless your Faith your Love improve.  
Either resolve to let me die  
By fairer Play, your Cruelty;  
Than not your Love, with Faith impart,  
And with your Vows, to give your Heart.  
In mad Despair I'd rather fall,  
Than lose my glorious Hopes of Conquering all.   
So certain it is, that Love, without Faith, is of no value.  
In fine, my adorable Iris, this Case shall be, as near as I can, like those delicate Ones of Filligrin-Work, which do not hinder the Sight from taking a View of all within: You may therefore see, through this Heart, all your Watch. Nor is my Desire of Preserving this inestimable Piece more, than to make it the whole Rule of my Life and Actions. And my chiefest Design in these Ciphers, is, to comprehend in 'em, the principal Virtues that are most necessary to Love. Do not we know, that Reciprocal Love is Justice; Constant Love, Fortitude; Secret Love, Prudence? Though 'tis true, that Extreme Love, that is, Excess of Love, in one Sense, appears not to be Temperance; yet you must know, my Iris, that in Matters of Love, Excess is a Virtue, and that all other Degrees of Love are worthy Scorn alone. 'Tis this alone, that can make good the glorious Title: 'Tis this alone, that can bear the true Name of Love; and this alone, that renders the Lovers truly happy, in spite of all the Storms of Fate, and Shocks of Fortune. This is an Antidote against all other Griefs: This bears up the Soul in all Calamity; and is the very Heaven of Life, the last Refuge of all Worldly Pain and Care, and may well bear the Title of Divine.  

The Art of Loving well.  

That Love may all Perfection be;  
Sweet, Charming to the last Degree,  
The Heart, where the bright Flame does dwell,  
In Faith and Softness should excel:  
Excess of Love should fill each Vein,  
And all its sacred Rites maintain.  
The tenderest Thoughts Heaven can inspire,  
Should be the Fuel to its Fire:  
And that, like Incense, burn as pure;  
Or that, in Urns, should still endure.  
No fond Desire should fill the Soul,  
But such as Honour may control.   

Jealousy I will allow:  
Not the Amorous Winds that blow  
Should wanton in my Iris Hair,  
Or ravish Kisses from my Fair.  
Not the Flowers, that grow beneath,  
Should borrow Sweetness of her Breath.   

If her Bird she do caress,  
How I grudge its Happiness,  
When upon her Snowy Hand,  
The Wanton does triumphing stand!  
Or upon her Breast she skips,  
And lays her Beak to Iris Lips!  
Fainting at my ravished Joy,  
I could the Innocent destroy.   

If I can no Bliss afford,  
To a little harmless Bird,  
Tell me, O thou dear loved Maid!  
What Reason could my Rage persuade,  
If a Rival should invade?   

If thy charming Eyes should dart  
Looks that sally from the Heart;  
If you sent a Smile, or Glance  
To another, tho' by Chance;  
Still thou giv'st what's not thy own:  
They belong to me alone.   

All Submission I would pay.  
Man was born, the Fair t'obey.  
Your very Look I'd understand,  
And thence receive your least Command:  
Never your Justice will dispute;  
But, like a Lover, execute.   

I would no Usurper be,  
But in claiming sacred Thee.  
I would have all, and every Part:  
No Thought should hide within thy Heart.  
Mine a Cabinet was made,  
Where Iris Secrets should be laid.  
In the rest, without Control,  
She should triumph o'er the Soul:  
Prostrate at her Feet I'd lie,  
Despising Power and Liberty;  
Glorying more by Love to fall,  
Than rule the Universal Ball.   

Hear me, O you Saucy Youth!  
And from my Maxims, learn this Truth.  
Would you Great and Powerful prove?  
Be an humble Slave to Love,  
'Tis nobler far, a Joy to give,  
Than any Blessing to receive.      

THE LOOKING-GLASS, Sent from DAMON to IRIS.  
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 me of 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 every Feature, every 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.   

Iris' 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 fine 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 nauceous 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 bendst thy liquid Force  
To lovely Thames! upon whose Shore  
The Maid resides, whom I adore!  
My Tears of Love upon thy Surface bear:  
And if upon thy Banks thou see'st my Fair,  
In all thy softest 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' 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' 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 of 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 captived 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 Dart,  
It never missed the destined Heart.    

Iris' 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 are 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 Heaven 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 louliest 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 me.    

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 Vnconsid'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 softest 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 inspire 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 falls 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 sor their Friends, than Iris: Their Presence gives her Joy; their Absence, Trouble; and when she cannot see 'em, she finds no Pleasure, like Speaking of 'em 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 every God in vain I pray;  
In every Grove repeat my Moans.  
Still Iris Charms are all my Sorrows Themes:  
They pain me Waking, and they wrack 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 a 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.     
FINIS.