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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
'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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.