To the most ingenious ASTREA, upon her Book intituled, La Môntre, or the Lover's Watch. (continued 2)
Reading edition
You see here that Poets and Warriors are oftentimes in affliction, even under the Shades of their protecting Laurels; and let the Nymphs and Virgins sing what they please to their memory, under the Myrtles, and on flowery Beds, they are 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 entertain'd in Dreams.
TWO o'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; Chimera's of the Imagination, and no more. But tho' 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 assur'd, 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, give 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 shewed me the Ardour of your Flame, 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 so entire, that if it happen you should awake with the Satisfaction of this Dream, you should find your Heart still panting with the soft 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.
THREE o'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 cloy'd 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 which contrives 'em: And, as good a Lover as I believe you, you will not enter into my Design at first sight; and tho', 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 lanquish out my Life in Care, To e'ery Passion made a Prey? I burn with Love, and soft Desire; I rave with Jealousy and Fear: All Day, for Ease, my Soul I tire; In vain I search it ev'ry where: It dwells not with the Witty or the Fair. It is not in the Camp or Court, In Business, Musick, 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 Day-light had deny'd. 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 Moments so infinitely charming, you must needs allow, that these little Chagrin 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 Foibles, something of the lightness of my Sex; that my Soul is employ'd 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 ador'd. 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 Coquet, 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 your self; 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, tho' I am not wholly without Faults, but those will be excusable to a Lover; and this Notion I have of a perfect one:
Whate'er fantastick Humours rule the Fair, She's still the Lover's Dotage, and his Care.
FOUR o'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 mine 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 me too well not to be extreamely uneasy in the Company of a Rival, and to have one perpetually near me; for let him be belov'd or not by the Mistress, it must be confess'd, 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 possess'd 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! Spightful as Witchcraft, which th' Invoker harms; Worse than the Wretch that suffers by its Charms. Thou subtil Poison in the Fancy bred, } Diffus'd thro' 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 debauch'd, false Sense, and mad Desire.
In fine, 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 wou'd rack a Lover's Heart To the extent of Cruelty, Must his Tranquillity subvert To the most tort'ring Jealousy.
I speak too sensibly of this Passion, not to have lov'd well enough to have been touch'd with it: And you shall be this unhappy Lover Damon, during this Dream, in which nothing shall present it self to your tumultuous Thoughts, that shall not bring its Pain. You shall here pass and repass 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 spight of Reason, in contempt of Love: Sometimes by turns, sometimes united move.
FIVE o'CLOCK.
Quarrels in Dreams.
I perceive you are not able to suffer all this Injustice, nor can I permit it any longer: and tho' you commit no Crime yourself, yet you believe in this Dream, that I complain of the Injuries you do my Fame; and that I am extreamely 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.
Tho', Silvia, you are very fair, Yet disagreeable to me; And since you so inconstant are, Your Beauty's damn'd with Levity. Your Wit, your most offensive Arms, For want of Judgment, wants its Charms. To every Lover that is new, All new and charming you surprize; But when your fickle Mind they view, They shun 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 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 Tye 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 betray'd! Reason would have it so, but Love Dares not the dang'rous Tryal 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 murm'ring Heart, Against my Int'rest, take your part. The Feud was rais'd by Dreams, all false and vain, And the next Sleep shall reconcile again.
SIX o'CLOCK.
Accommodation in Dreams.
Tho' the angry Lovers force themselves, all they can, to chase away the troublesom 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 peace-making 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 vanisht, 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 suffer'd; 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 Moments 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 harden'd insensibly, and lose its native Temper. A few Quarrels there must be in Love: Love cannot support it self 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 reconcil'd.
He that would have the Passion be Entire between the am'rous Pair, Let not the little Feuds of Jealousy Be carry'd on to a Despair: That palls 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 Quarrels wrought; Let Love the kind Occasion take, And straight Accommodations make. The sullen Lover, long unkind, Ill-natur'd, hard to reconcile, Loses the Heart he had inclin'd; Love cannot undergo long Toil; He's soft and sweet, not born to bear The rough Fatigues of painful War.
SEVEN o'CLOCK.
Divers Dreams.
Behold, Damon, the last Hour of your Sleep, and of my Watch. She leaves you at Liberty now, and you may chuse 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 flatt'ring Cupid, that will favour your slumb'ring Minutes with Lyes 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 depriv'd 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 satisfy'd with those Pleasures; but see 'em so, as the World may have reason to say, you do not seek them, you do not make a Business or Pleasure of them; and that 'tis Complaisance, and not Inclination, that carries you thither. Seem rather negligent than concern'd 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 satisfy'd you know it too well; and have too great a Veneration for your glorious Master, to neglect any part of that for even Love it self. 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 satisfy'd 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 render'd 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 immortaliz'd his Fame (of which there shall remain a thousand to Posterity) this noble Structure alone, this Building (almost Divine) would have eterniz'd the great Name of Glorious Charles II. till the World moulder again to its old Confusion, its first Chaos. And the Paintings of the famous Varrio, and noble Carvings of the unimitable Gibbon, shall never die, but remain to tell succeeding Ages, that all Arts and Learning were not confin'd to antient Rome and Greece, but that England too could boast its mightiest Share. Nor is the Inside of this magnificent Structure, immortaliz'd with so many eternal Images of the illustrious Charles and Katharine, more to be admired than the wondrous Prospects without. The stupendous Heighth, 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 produc'd. Beyond all these, and far below, in an inviting Vale, the venerable College, an old, but noble Building, raises it self, in the midst of all the Beauties of Nature, high-grown Trees, fruitful Plains, purling Rivulets, and spacious Gardens, adorn'd 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 the 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 Villa's of the World; at least, were it finish'd as begun; and would sufficiently declare the magnifick Soul of the Hero that caus'd it to be built, and contriv'd 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 stor'd with Deer, and all that makes 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 Heroick, Good, and Just of Kings: And these Groves alone are fit and worthy to divert such earthly Gods.
Nor can Heaven, Nature, or human Art contrive an Addition to this earthly Paradise, unless those great Inventors of the Age, Sir Samuel Morland, or Sir Robert Gorden, cou'd 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, and 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 Moments in; and I 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 nobler Lover, who would prove Uncommon in Address, Let him Ambition join with Love; With Glory, Tenderness: But let the Virtues so be mixt, 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 Int'rest and the Court. 'Tis Honour shall his Bus'ness 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, Destin'd at his auspicious Birth T' out-do the num'rous Race of long-past Kings. Best Representative of Heaven, To whom its chiefest Attributes are given! Great, Pious, Stedfast, Just, and Brave! To Vengeance slow, but swift to save! Dispensing Mercy all abroad! Soft and forgiving as a God! Thou saving Angel who preserv'st the Land From the just Rage of the avenging Hand; Stopt the dire Plague, that o'er the Earth was hurl'd, And sheathing thy Almighty Sword, Calm'd 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; tho' 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 my self 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 shew. } And ev'ry Hour he renders there, Except l'heure du Bergere.
The CASE for the WATCH.
DAMON to IRIS.
Expect not, Oh charming Iris! that I should chuse Words to thank you in; (Words, that least Part of Love, and least the Business of the Lover) but will say all, and every thing that a tender Heart can dictate, to make an Acknowledgment 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 tho' 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 Acknowledgment 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, tho' 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 the 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 explain'd 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 treasur'd 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 num'rous Throng That to your Altars do belong, To me the Sacred Myst'ry have reveal'd, From all my Rival-Worshippers conceal'd; And toucht my Soul with heav'nly Fire, Refin'd 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 e'ery 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 belov'd than she. But when with the dear Maid apart, Then at her Feet the Lover lies; Opens his Soul, shews 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 wou'd 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 shew you the Ornaments of the Case. I do intend to have 'em crown'd Cyphers: I do not mean those Crowns of Vanity, which are put indifferently on all sorts of Cyphers; no, I must have such as may distinguish mine from the rest, and may be true Emblems of what I would represent. My four Cyphers therefore shall be crown'd with these four Wreaths, of Olive, Laurel, Myrtle, and Roses: and the Letters that begin the Names of Iris and Damon shall compose the Cyphers; tho' I must intermix some other Letters that bear another Sense, and have another Signification.
The First CYPHER.
The first Cypher is compos'd of an I and a D, which are join'd by an L and an E; which signifies Love Extreme. And 'tis but just, Oh adorable Iris! that Love should be mixt with our Cyphers, and that Love alone should be the Union of 'em.
Love ought alone the Mystick Knot to tie; Love, that great Master of all Arts: And this dear Cypher 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 compleat 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, tho' you lov'd me, if you had no Faith in me, I should languish, and love in as much Pain, as if you scorn'd; and at the same time believ'd I dy'd for you: For surely, Iris, 'tis a greater Pleasure to please than to be pleas'd; and the glorious Power of Giving is infinitely a greater Satisfaction, than that of Receiving: there is so Great and God-like 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 Affection. And these Cyphers ought to make the World find all the noble Force of delicate Passion: for, Oh 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 join'd, which are fill'd with eternal soft Wishes, Oh! there is some Excess of Pleasure, which cannot be express'd!
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 to blame, to give the Name of Love to feeble easy Passions. Such transitory tranquil Inclinations are at best but Well-wishers to Love; and a Heart that has such Heats as those, ought not to put it self into the Rank of those nobler Victims that are offer'd 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 my self 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 crown'd? And will you wonder to see, over this Cypher, a Wreath of Myrtles, those Boughs so sacred to the Queen of Love, and so worshipp'd by Lovers? 'Tis with these soft Wreaths, that those are crown'd, who understand how to love well and faithfully.
The Smiles, the Graces, and the Sports, That in the Secret Groves maintain their Courts, Are with these Myrtles crown'd: 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 valu'd are those consecrated Leaves, Than the bright Wealth in Eastern Rocks confin'd: And Crowns of Glory less Ambition move, Than those more sacred Diadems of Love.
The Second CYPHER,
Is crown'd 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 honour'd with the Glory of your Tenderness and Care, I ought, as a Trophy of my illustrious Conquest, to adorn the Watch with a Cypher that is so advantageous to me. Ought I not to esteem my self 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 it self to a thousand Extasies! In the Merchandize 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 shew the least Repentance for the Blessing you have given me. The Exchange we made, was confirm'd by a noble Faith; and you ought to believe, you have bestow'd 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 Recompence 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 Cypher 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 CYPHER.
The C and the L, which are join'd to the Letters of our Names in this Cypher crown'd 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 oftner 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; tho' the Remembrance of 'em be very dear, and very charming. We should be both unjust, if we were not persuaded we are possest 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 an 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 lov'd, 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 Dependance 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 tho' 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, ere begun, to make an end. Of that fond Flame what shall we say, That's born and languisht in a Day? Such short-liv'd Blessings cannot bring The Pleasure of an Envying. Who is't will celebrate that Flame, That's damn'd to such a scanty Fame? While constant Love the Nymphs and Swains } Still sacred make, in lasting Strains } And chearful Lays throughout the Plains. } A constant Love knows no Decay: } But still advancing ev'ry Day, } Will last as long as Life can stay, } With ev'ry Look and Smile improves, } With the same Ardour always moves, } With such as Damon charming Iris loves! }
Constant Love finds it self 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; tho' 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 Cypher of Constant Love with a Wreath of Laurel; since such Love always triumphs over Time and Fortune, tho' it be not her Property to besiege: for she cannot overcome, but in defending her self; 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 CYPHER.
Perhaps, my lovely Maid, you will not find out what I mean by the S and the L, in this last Cypher, that is crown'd 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, that 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 pall'd, 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 publick, 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 Cypher 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 Odour 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 Judgments of his Actions, or to give their Censures; which most certainly are never in the Favour of the Fair Person: for likely, those false Censurers are of the busy Female Sex, the Coquets of that number; whose little Spites and Railleries, join'd to that fancy'd 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 inclin'd is all the World to credit the Ill, and condemn the Good! And yet, Oh! what pity 'tis we are compell'd to live in Pain, to oblige this foolish scandalous World! And tho' we know each other's Virtue and Honour, we are oblig'd 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 those Roses, you will find some Thorns; by which you may imagine, that in Love, Precaution is necessary to its Secrecy: And we must restrain our selves, upon a thousand occasions, with so much Care, that, Oh 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 the 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 inclose, 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 compleating the whole Piece to the utmost Perfection; and without your Aid it cannot be perform'd. 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, join'd to mine; with this Motto, Inviolable Faith: For in 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 lov'd so ill to leave one Doubt upon your Soul. Why then, will you want that Faith, Oh 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 Youth 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, thro' 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 Cyphers, is to comprehend in them the principal Virtues that are most necessary to Love. Do not we know that Reciprocal Love is Justice? Constant Love, Fortitude? Secret Love, Prudence? Tho' '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 Name of Love; and this alone that renders the Lovers truly happy, in spight 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 tend'rest Thoughts Heav'n 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 controul. 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, Oh thou dear-lov'd 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 would hide within thy Heart. Mine a Cabinet was made, Where Iris' Secrets should be laid. In the rest, without controul, 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 LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS, to Dress her self by: or, The Art of Charming.
Sent from DAMON to IRIS.
How long, Oh 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: tho' 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 your self that nothing can equal your Perfections. All the World says it, and you must doubt it no longer. Oh Iris! will you dispute against the whole World?
But since you have so long distrusted 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 Graces 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 a Lover die; How that, more soft, gives Immortality. Where you shall see what 'tis enslaves the Soul; Where e'ery Feature, e'ery 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's LOOKING-GLASS.
Damon (Oh charming Iris!) has given me to you, that you may sometimes give your self 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 Fantastick, and the Formal, who give themselves pain to shew their Will to please, and whose Dressing makes the greatest part of its Fineness, when they are more oblig'd to the Taylor 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 screw'd 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 turn'd into a Pillar of Salt; the less stiff and fix'd 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 look'd on her self: And is all over such a Lady Nice (excepting in her Conversation) that ever made a ridiculous Figure. And there are many Ladies more, but too much tainted with that nauseous Formality, that old-fashion'd 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 but please extremely; and which has not given Damon a thousand Rivals.
Damon, the young, the am'rous, and the true, Who sighs incessantly for you; Whose whole Delight, now you are gone, Is to retire to Shades alone, And to the Echoes make his moan. By purling Streams the wishing Youth is laid, Still sighing Iris! lovely charming Maid! See, in thy Absence, how thy Lover dies! While to his Sighs the Echo still replies. Then with the Stream he holds Discourse: O thou that bend'st thy liquid Force To lovely Thames! upon whose Shore The Maid resides whom I adore! My Tears of Love upon thy Surface bear: And if upon thy Banks thou seest my Fair: In all thy softest Murmurs sing, From Damon I this Present bring; My e'ery Curl contains a Tear! Then at her Feet thy Tribute pay: But haste, O happy Stream! away; Lest charm'd too much, thou shouldst for ever stay. And thou, Oh gentle, murm'ring Breeze! That plays in Air, and wantons with the Trees; On thy young Wings, where gilded Sun-beams 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 bear, Nor ruffle one dear Curl of her bright Hair. Oh! touch her Cheeks with sacred Reverence, And stay not gazing on her lovely Eyes! But if thou bear'st her rosy Breath from thence, 'Tis Incense of that Excellence, That as thou mount'st, 'twill perfume all the Skies.
IRIS's COMPLEXION.
Say what you will, I am confident, if you will confess your Heart, you are, every time you view your self in me, surpris'd 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 assur'd 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 Judgment 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 polisht Wax, or Ivory, extreamely white and clear; tho' if any body speaks but of your Beauty, an agreeable Blush casts it self all over your Face, and gives you a thousand new Graces.
And then two Flowers newly born. Shine in your Heav'nly Face; The Rose that blushes in the Morn, Usurps the Lilly's place: Sometimes the Lilly does prevail. And makes the gen'rous Crimson pale.
IRIS's HAIR.
Oh, the beautiful Hair of Iris! it seems as if Nature had crown'd 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.
Heav'n 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' Birth-day 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 shews us the Weakness of the Mind; not that either of these Arguments are 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 shews a Complexion and Constitution, neither so cold to be insensible, nor so hot to have too much Fire: that is, neither too white, nor too black; but such a mixture of the two Colours, as makes it the most agreeable in the World.
'Tis that which leads those captivated Hearts, That bleeding at your Feet do lie; 'Tis that the Obstinate converts, That dare the Power of Love deny: 'Tis that which Damon so admires; Damon, who often tells you so. If from your Eyes Love takes his Fires, 'Tis with your Hair he strings his Bow: Which touching but the feather'd Dart, It never mist the destin'd Heart.
IRIS's EYES.
I believe, my fair Mistress, I shall dazzle you with the Lustre of your own Eyes. They are the finest Blue in World: They have all the Sweetness that ever charm'd the Heart, with a certain Languishment that's irresistible; and never any look'd 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 Chrystal 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 Monarchs guest my Happiness. Every Look that's soft and gay, Iris gives me every Day. Spight of her Virtue and her Pride, Every Morning I am blest With what to Damon is deny'd; To view her when she is undrest. All her Heaven of Beauty's shown To triumphing Me——alone. Scarce the prying Beams of Light, Or th' impatient God of Day, Are allow'd so near a Sight, Or dare profane her with a Ray; When she has appear'd 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 stray'd beyond my Limits; for I was telling you of the wond'rous Fineness of your Eyes, which no Mortal can resist, nor any Heart stand the Force of their Charms, and the most difficult Conquest they gain, scarce cost 'em the expence 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 ador'd. And when they are angry, they strike an unresistible 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 ravish'd 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, Oh fair Iris! do not think to present your self before a Glass, if you would not have it tell you all your Beauties. Content your self that I only speak of 'em, en passant; for should I speak what I would, I should dwell all Day upon each Particular, and still say something new. Give me liberty then to speak of your fine Mouth: You need only open it a little, and you will see the most delicate Teeth that ever you beheld; the whitest, and the best set. Your Lips are the finest in the World; so round, so soft, so plump, so dimpled, and of the loveliest Colour. And when you smile, Oh! what Imagination can conceive how sweet it is, that has not seen you smiling? I cannot describe what I so admire; and 'tis in vain to those who have not seen Iris.
Oh Iris! boast that one peculiar Charm, That has so many Conquests made; So innocent, yet capable of Harm; So just it self, yet has so oft betray'd: Where a thousand Graces dwell, And wanton round in ev'ry Smile. A thousand Loves do listen when you speak, And catch each Accent as it flies: Rich flowing Wit, whene'er you Silence break, Flows from your Tongue, and sparkles in your Eyes. Whether you talk, or silent are, Your Lips immortal Beauties wear.
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 form'd. 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 turn'd 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 disdain'd to be confin'd 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 flow'ry 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 shew you your Hands and Arms, because you may view them without my Help; and you are very unjust, if you have not admir'd '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 out-side, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft Palm. Oh 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 veil'd, that lovely Hand has gain'd 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 vow'd, It never toucht 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 doating on the lovely Face! The Unconsid'ring little knows, How much he to this Beauty owes. That, when the Lover absent is, Informs him of his Mistress' Heart; 'Tis that which gives him all his Bliss, When dear Love-Secrets 'twill impart, That plights the Faith the Maid bestows; And that confirms the tim'rous Vows. 'Tis that betrays the Tenderness, Which the too bashful Tongue denies: 'Tis that which does the Heart confess, And spares the Language of the Eyes. 'Tis that which Treasure gives so vast; Ev'n Iris 'twill to Damon give at last.
The GRACE and AIR of IRIS.
'Tis I alone, O charming Maid! that can shew 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 cou'd 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 convinc'd, and know, no part of your Beauty can charm more than this. O Iris! confess, Love has adorn'd 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 adorn'd, as if that Shape and Air had a peculiar Art to make all Things appear gay and fine. Oh! how well drest you are! How every Thing becomes you! Never singular, never gawdy; 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 fancy'd 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, Oh ye mistaken Fair! To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air: Let easy Nature all the Bus'ness do, She can the softest Graces shew; Which Art but turns to ridicule, And where there's none serves but to shew the Fool. In Iris you all Graces find; Charms without Art, a Motion unconfin'd; Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks; And without Affectation, moves and walks. Beauties so perfect ne'er were seen: O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by Iris' Mein.
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 damn'd 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 surprizing, your Beauty, or your Discretion? But we dispute in vain on that excellent Subject; for after all, 'tis determin'd, 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 Subtlety, and florid Talking, to make the Out-side 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, making your self and Hearers pleasant at the expence 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 Lovers, answer his Passion with a noble Ardour. Your Prudence never fails in the Choice of your Friends; and in chusing 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 assur'd, that your Empire is eternally established by your Beauty and your Goodness: Your Power is confirm'd, 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 then you charm. And tho' sometimes you can be a little disturb'd, yet thro' your Anger your Goodness shines; and you are but too much afraid, that that may bear a false Interpretation: For oftentimes Scandal makes that pass for an Effect of Love, which is purely that of Complaisance.
Never had any body more Tenderness for their Friends, than Iris: Their Presence gives her Joy, their Absence Trouble; and when she cannot see them, she finds no Pleasure like speaking of them obligingly. Friendship reigns in your Heart, and Sincerity on your Tongue. Your Friendship is so strong, so constant, and so tender, that it charms, pleases, and satisfies all, that are not your Adorers. Damon therefore is excusable, if he be not contented with your noble Friendship alone; for he is the most tender of that Number.
No! give me all, th' impatient Lover cries; Without your Soul I cannot live: Dull Friendship cannot mine suffice, That dies for all you have to give. The Smiles, the Vows, the Heart must all be mine; I cannot spare one Thought, or Wish of thine. I sigh, I languish all the Day; Each Minute ushers in my Groans: To ev'ry God in vain I pray; In ev'ry Grove repeat my Moans. Still Iris' Charms are all my Sorrows Themes! They pain me waking, and they rack 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 deceiv'd 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 formed; that you have a Wit that surprizes, 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 hear her: She has the perfect Air of penetrating, even the most secret Thoughts. How often have you known, without being told, all that has past 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 Heav'n, 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 Heav'n 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 entertain'd you too long with a Discourse on your self. 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 shew 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 spight 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 others to defend your self against the Attacks of your Adorers. You your self 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 believ'd, 'twill serve at least to convince you I have not been so guilty of Flattery, as I have a thousand Times been charg'd. Since then 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 continu'd 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, Inticing on, and leading more astray! Thou Joy in Prospect, future Bliss extreme; Never to be possess'd, but in a Dream! Thou fab'lous Goddess, which the ravisht Boy In happy Slumbers proudly did enjoy; But waking, found an airy Cloud he prest; His Arms came empty to his panting Breast. Thou Shade, that only haunt'st the Soul by night; And when thou shouldst inform thou fly'st 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. }