MyDamon,if your Heart be kind,Do not too long with Beauty stay;For there are certain Moments when the MindIs hurry'd by the Force of Charms away.In Fate a Minute critical there lies,That waits on Love, and takes you by Surprize.A Lover pleas'd with Constancy,Lives still as if the Maid he lov'd were by:As if his Actions were in view,As if his Steps she did pursue;Or that his very Soul she knew.Take heed; for though I am not present there,My Love, my Genius waits you every where.
MyDamon,if your Heart be kind,Do not too long with Beauty stay;For there are certain Moments when the MindIs hurry'd by the Force of Charms away.In Fate a Minute critical there lies,That waits on Love, and takes you by Surprize.
A Lover pleas'd with Constancy,Lives still as if the Maid he lov'd were by:As if his Actions were in view,As if his Steps she did pursue;Or that his very Soul she knew.Take heed; for though I am not present there,My Love, my Genius waits you every where.
I am very much pleas'd with the Remedy, you say, you make use of to defend your self from the Attacks that Beauty gives your Heart; which in one of your Billets, you said was this, or to this purpose:
The Charm for Constancy.
Iris,to keep my Soul entire and true,It thinks, each Moment of the Day, on you.And when a charming Face I see,That does all other Eyes incline,It has no Influence on me:I think it ev'n deform'd to thine.My Eyes, my Soul, and Sense, regardless moveTo all, but the dear Object of my Love.
Iris,to keep my Soul entire and true,It thinks, each Moment of the Day, on you.And when a charming Face I see,That does all other Eyes incline,It has no Influence on me:I think it ev'n deform'd to thine.My Eyes, my Soul, and Sense, regardless moveTo all, but the dear Object of my Love.
But,Damon, I know all Lovers are naturally Flatterers, tho' they do not think so themselves; because every one makes a Sense of Beauty according to his own Fancy. But perhaps you will say in your own defence, That 'tis not Flattery to say an unbeautiful Woman is beautiful, if he that says so believes she is so. I should be content to acquit you of the first, provided you allow me the last: And if I appear charming inDamon'seyes, I amnot fond of the Approbation of any other. 'Tis enough the World thinks me not altogether disagreeable, to justify his Choice; but let your good Opinion give what Increase it pleases to my Beauty, tho' your Approbation give me a Pleasure, it shall not a Vanity; and I am contented thatDamonshould think me a Beauty, without my believing I am one. 'Tis not to draw new Assurances, and new Vows from you, that I speak this; though Tales of Love are the only ones we desire to hear often told, and which never tire the Hearers if addrest to themselves. But 'tis not to this end I now seem to doubt what you say to my advantage: No, my Heart knows no Disguise, nor can dissemble one Thought of it toDamon; 'tis all sincere, and honest as his Wish: 'Tis therefore it tells you, it does not credit every thing you say; tho' I believe you say abundance of Truths in a great part of my Character. But when you advance to that, which my own Sense, my Judgment, or my Glass cannot persuade me to believe, you must give me leave either to believe you think me vain enough to credit you, or pleas'd that your Sentiments and mine are differing in this point. But I doubt I may rather reply in some Verses, a Friend of yours and mine sent to a Person she thought had but indifferent Sentiments for her; yet, who nevertheless flatter'd her, because he imagin'd she had a very great Esteem for him. She is a Woman that, you know, naturally hates Flattery: On the other side she was extremely dissatisfy'd, and uneasy at his Opinion of his being more in her favour than she desir'd he should believe. So that one Night having left her full of Pride and Anger, she next Morning sent him these Verses, instead of aBilletdoux.
The Defiance.
By Heaven 'tis false, I am not vain;And rather would the Subject beOf your Indifference, or Disdain,Than Wit or Raillery.Take back the trifling Praise you give,And pass it on some easier Fool,Who may the injuring Wit believe,That turns her into ridicule.Tell her, she's witty, fair and gay,With all the Charms that can subdue:Perhaps she'll credit what you say;But curse me if I do.If your Diversion you design,On my Good-nature you have prest:Or if you do intend it mine,You have mistook the Jest.Philander,fly that guilty Art:Your charming facile Wit will find,It cannot play on any Heart,That is sincere and kind.For Wit with Softness to reside,Good-nature is with Pity stor'd;But Flattery's the result of Pride,And fawns to be ador'd.Nay, even when you smile and bow,'Tis to be render'd more compleat:Your Wit, with ev'ry Grace you shew,Is but a popular Cheat.Laugh on, and call me Coxcomb—do;And, your Opinion to improve,Think, all you think of me is true;And to confirm it, swear I love.Then, while you wreck my Soul with Pain,And of a cruel Conquest boast,'Tis you,Philander,that are vain,And witty at my cost.
By Heaven 'tis false, I am not vain;And rather would the Subject beOf your Indifference, or Disdain,Than Wit or Raillery.Take back the trifling Praise you give,And pass it on some easier Fool,Who may the injuring Wit believe,That turns her into ridicule.
Tell her, she's witty, fair and gay,With all the Charms that can subdue:Perhaps she'll credit what you say;But curse me if I do.
If your Diversion you design,On my Good-nature you have prest:Or if you do intend it mine,You have mistook the Jest.
Philander,fly that guilty Art:Your charming facile Wit will find,It cannot play on any Heart,That is sincere and kind.
For Wit with Softness to reside,Good-nature is with Pity stor'd;But Flattery's the result of Pride,And fawns to be ador'd.
Nay, even when you smile and bow,'Tis to be render'd more compleat:Your Wit, with ev'ry Grace you shew,Is but a popular Cheat.
Laugh on, and call me Coxcomb—do;And, your Opinion to improve,Think, all you think of me is true;And to confirm it, swear I love.
Then, while you wreck my Soul with Pain,And of a cruel Conquest boast,'Tis you,Philander,that are vain,And witty at my cost.
Possibly, the angryAminta, when she writ these Verses, was more offended, that he believed himself belov'd, than that he flatter'd; tho' she wou'd seem to make that a great part of the Quarrel, and Cause of her Resentment: For we are often in an humour to seem more modest in that point, than naturally we are; being too apt to have a favourable Opinion of our selves: And 'tis rather the Effects of a Fear that we are flatter'd, than our own ill Opinion of the Beauty flatter'd; and that the Praiser thinks not so well of it, as we do our selves, or at least we wish he should. Not but there are Grains of Allowance for the Temper of him that speaks: One Man's Humour is to talk much; and he may be permitted to enlarge upon the Praise he gives the Person he pretends to, without being accus'd of much Guilt. Another hates to be wordy; from such an one, I have known one soft Expression, one tender Thing, go as far as whole Days everlasting Protestations urged with Vows, and mighty Eloquence. And both the one and the other, indeed, must be allow'd in good manners, to stretch the Compliment beyond the bounds of nice Truth: and we must not wonder to hear a Man call a Woman a Beauty, when she is not ugly; or another a great Wit, if she have but common Sense above the Vulgar; well bred, when well drest; and good-natur'd, when civil. And as I should be very ridiculous, if I took all you said for absolute Truth; so I should be very unjust, not to allow you very sincere in almost all you said besides; and those things, the most material to Love, Honour and Friendship. And for the rest (Damon) be it true or false, this believe, you speak with such a Grace, that I cannot chuse but credit you; and find an infinite Pleasure in that Faith, because I love you: And if I cannot find the Cheat, I am contented you should deceive me on, because you do it so agreeably.
Walk without Design.
You yet have time to walk; and myWatchforesaw you cou'd not refuse your Friends. You must to thePark, or to theMall; for the Season is fair and inviting, and all the young Beauties love those Places too well, not to be there. 'Tis there that a thousand Intrigues are carry'd on, and as many more design'd: 'Tis there that every one is set out for Conquest; and who aim at nothing less than Hearts. Guard yours well, myDamon; and be not always admiring what you see. Do not, in passing by, sigh them silent Praises. Suffer not so much as a guilty Wish to approach your Thoughts, nor a heedful Glance to steal from your fine Eyes: Those are Regards you ought only to have for her you love. But oh! above all, have a care of what you say: You are not reproachable, if you should remain silent all the time of your Walk; nor would those that know you believe it the Effects of Dulness, but Melancholy. And if any of your Friends ask you, Why you are so? I will give you leave to sigh, and say—
The Mal-Content.
Ah! wonder not if I appearRegardless of the Pleasures here;Or that my Thoughts are thus confin'dTo the just Limits of my Mind.My Eyes take no delight to roveO'er all the smiling Charmers of the Grove,Since she is absent whom they love.Ask me not, Why the Flow'ry Spring,Or the gay little Birds that sing,Or the young Streams no more delight,Or Shades and Arbours can't invite?Why the soft Murmurs of the Wind,Within the thick-grown Groves confin'd,No more my Soul transport, or cheer;Since all that's charming—Iris,is not here;Nothing seems glorious, nothing fair.Then suffer me to wander thus,With down-cast Eyes, and Arms across:Let Beauty unregarded go;The Trees and Flowers unheeded grow.Let purling Streams neglected glide;With all the Spring's adorning Pride.'TisIrisonly Soul can giveTo the dull Shades, and Plains, and make 'em thrive;Nature and my last Joys retrieve.
Ah! wonder not if I appearRegardless of the Pleasures here;Or that my Thoughts are thus confin'dTo the just Limits of my Mind.My Eyes take no delight to roveO'er all the smiling Charmers of the Grove,Since she is absent whom they love.
Ask me not, Why the Flow'ry Spring,Or the gay little Birds that sing,Or the young Streams no more delight,Or Shades and Arbours can't invite?Why the soft Murmurs of the Wind,Within the thick-grown Groves confin'd,No more my Soul transport, or cheer;Since all that's charming—Iris,is not here;Nothing seems glorious, nothing fair.
Then suffer me to wander thus,With down-cast Eyes, and Arms across:Let Beauty unregarded go;The Trees and Flowers unheeded grow.Let purling Streams neglected glide;With all the Spring's adorning Pride.'TisIrisonly Soul can giveTo the dull Shades, and Plains, and make 'em thrive;Nature and my last Joys retrieve.
I do not, for all this, wholly confine your Eyes: you may look indifferently on all, but with a particular regard on none. You may praise all the Beauties in general, but no single one too much. I will not exact from you neither an intire Silence: There are a thousand Civilities you ought to pay to all your Friends and Acquaintance; and while I caution you of Actions, that may get you the Reputation of a Lover of some of the Fair that haunt those Places, I would not have you, by an unnecessary and uncomplaisant Sullenness, gain that of a Person too negligent or morose. I would have you remiss in no onePunctilioof good Manners. I would have you very just, and pay all you owe; but in these Affairs be not over generous, and give away too much. In fine, you may look, speak and walk; but (Damon) do it all without design: And while you do so, remember thatIrissent you this Advice.
The Warning.
Take heed, myDamon,in the Grove,Where Beauties with design do walk;Take heed, myDamon,how you look and talk,For there are Ambuscades of Love.The very Winds that softly blow,Will help betray your easy Heart;And all the Flowers that blushing grow,The Shades about, and Rivulets below,Will take the Victor's part.Remember,Damon,all my Safety liesIn the just Conduct of your Eyes.The Heart, by Nature good and brave,Is to those treacherous Guards a Slave.If they let in the fair destructive Foe,Scarce Honour can defend her noble Seat:Ev'n she will be corrupted too,Or driv'n to a Retreat.The Soul is but the Cully to the Sight,And must be pleas'd in what that takes delight.
Take heed, myDamon,in the Grove,Where Beauties with design do walk;Take heed, myDamon,how you look and talk,For there are Ambuscades of Love.The very Winds that softly blow,Will help betray your easy Heart;And all the Flowers that blushing grow,The Shades about, and Rivulets below,Will take the Victor's part.
Remember,Damon,all my Safety liesIn the just Conduct of your Eyes.The Heart, by Nature good and brave,Is to those treacherous Guards a Slave.If they let in the fair destructive Foe,Scarce Honour can defend her noble Seat:Ev'n she will be corrupted too,Or driv'n to a Retreat.The Soul is but the Cully to the Sight,And must be pleas'd in what that takes delight.
Therefore examine your self well; and conduct your Eyes, during this Walk, like a Lover that seeks nothing: And do not stay too long in these Places.
Voluntary Retreat.
'Tis time to be weary, 'tis Night: Take leave of your Friends and retire home. 'Tis in this Retreat that you ought to recollect in your Thoughts all the Actions of the Day, and all those things that you ought to give me an account of, in your Letter: You cannot hide the least Secret from me, without Treason against sacred Love. For all the World agrees that Confidence is one of the greatest Proofs of the Passion of Love; and that Lover who refuses his Confidence to the Person he loves, is to be suspected to love but very indifferently, and to think very poorly of the Sense and Generosity of his Mistress.But that you may acquit your self like a Man, and a Lover of Honour, and leave me no doubt upon my Soul; think of all you have done this day, that I may have all the Story of it in your next Letter to me: but deal faithfully, and neither add nor diminish in your Relation; the Truth and Sincerity of your Confession will atone even for little Faults that you shall commit against me, in some of those things you shall tell me. For if you have fail'd in any Point or Circumstance of Love, I had much rather hear it from you than another: for 'tis a sort of Repentance to accuse your self; and would be a Crime unpardonable, if you suffer me to hear it from any other: And be assur'd, while you confess it, I shall be indulgent enough to forgive you. The noblest Quality of Man is Sincerity; and (Damon) one ought to have as much of it in Love, as in any other Business of one's Life, notwithstanding the most part of Men make no account of it there; but will believe there ought to be Double-dealing, and an Art practised in Love as well as in War. But, Oh! beware of that Notion.
Sincerity.
Sincerity! thou greatest Good!Thou Virtue which so many boast!And art so nicely understood!And often in the searching lost!For when we do approach thee near,The fine Idea fram'd of thee,Appears not now so charming fairAs the more useful Flattery.Thou hast no Glist'ring to invite;Nor tak'st the Lover at first sight.The modest Virtue shuns the Croud,And lives, like Vestals, in a Cell;In Cities 'twill not be allow'd,Nor takes delight in Courts to dwell;'Tis Nonsense with the Man of Wit;And ev'n a Scandal to the Great:For all the Young, and Fair, unfit;And scorn'd by wiser Fops of State.A Virtue, yet was never knownTo the false Trader, or the falser Gown.And(Damon)tho' thy noble BloodBe most illustrious, and refin'd;Tho' ev'ry Grace and ev'ry GoodAdorn thy Person and thy Mind:Yet, if this Virtue shine not there,This God-like Virtue, which alone,Wert thou less witty, brave, or fair,Wou'd for all these, less priz'd, atone;My tender Folly I'd controul,And scorn the Conquest of thy Soul.
Sincerity! thou greatest Good!Thou Virtue which so many boast!And art so nicely understood!And often in the searching lost!For when we do approach thee near,The fine Idea fram'd of thee,Appears not now so charming fairAs the more useful Flattery.Thou hast no Glist'ring to invite;Nor tak'st the Lover at first sight.
The modest Virtue shuns the Croud,And lives, like Vestals, in a Cell;In Cities 'twill not be allow'd,Nor takes delight in Courts to dwell;'Tis Nonsense with the Man of Wit;And ev'n a Scandal to the Great:For all the Young, and Fair, unfit;And scorn'd by wiser Fops of State.A Virtue, yet was never knownTo the false Trader, or the falser Gown.
And(Damon)tho' thy noble BloodBe most illustrious, and refin'd;Tho' ev'ry Grace and ev'ry GoodAdorn thy Person and thy Mind:Yet, if this Virtue shine not there,This God-like Virtue, which alone,Wert thou less witty, brave, or fair,Wou'd for all these, less priz'd, atone;My tender Folly I'd controul,And scorn the Conquest of thy Soul.
Impatient Demands.
After you have sufficiently recollected your self of all the past Actions of the Day, call your Page into your Cabinet, or him whom you trusted with your last Letter to me; where you ought to enquire of him a thousand things, and all of me. Ask impatiently, and be angry if he answers not your Curiosity soon enough: Think that he has a dreaming in his Voice, in these moments more than at other times; and reproach him with Dulness: For 'tis most certain that when one loves tenderly, we would know in a minute, what cannot be related in an hour. Ask him, How I did? How I receiv'd his Letter? And if he examined the Air of my Face, when I took it? If I blush'd or looked pale? If my Hand trembled, or I spoke to him with short interrupting Sighs? If I asked him any Questions about you, while I was opening the Seal? Or ifI could not well speak, and was silent? If I read it attentively, and with Joy? And all this, before you open the Answer I have sent you by him: which, because you are impatient to read, you, with the more haste and earnestness, demand all you expect from him; and that you may the better know what Humour I was in, when I writ that to you: For, Oh! a Lover has a thousand little Fears, and Dreads, he knows not why. In fine, make him recount to you all that past, while he was with me; and then you ought to read that which I have sent, that you may inform your self of all that passes in my Heart: for you may assure your self, all that I say to you that way proceeds from thence.
The Assurance.
How shall a Lover come to know,Whether he's belov'd or no?What dear things must she impart,To assure him of her Heart?Is it when her Blushes rise;And she languish in her Eyes;Tremble when he does approach;Look pale, and faint at ev'ry Touch?Is it, when a thousand waysShe does his Wit and Beauty praise;Or she venture to explain,In less moving Words, a Pain;Tho' so indiscreet she grows,To confirm it with her Vows?These some short-liv'd Passion moves,While the Object's by, she loves;While the gay and sudden FireKindles by some fond Desire:And a Coldness will ensue,When the Lover's out of view.Then she reflects with Scandal o'erThe easy Scene that past before:Then, with Blushes, would recalThe unconsid'ring Criminal;In which a thousand Faults she'll find,And chide the Errors of her Mind.Such fickle weight is found in Words,As no substantial Faith affords:Deceiv'd and baffl'd all may be,Who trust that frail Security.But a well-digested Flame,That will always be the same;And that does from Merit grow,Establish'd by our Reason too;By a better way will prove,'Tis th' unerring Fire of Love.Lasting Records it will give:And, that all she says may live;Sacred and authentick stand,Her Heart confirms it by her Hand.If this, a Maid, well born, allow;Damon,believe her just and true.
How shall a Lover come to know,Whether he's belov'd or no?What dear things must she impart,To assure him of her Heart?Is it when her Blushes rise;And she languish in her Eyes;Tremble when he does approach;Look pale, and faint at ev'ry Touch?
Is it, when a thousand waysShe does his Wit and Beauty praise;Or she venture to explain,In less moving Words, a Pain;Tho' so indiscreet she grows,To confirm it with her Vows?
These some short-liv'd Passion moves,While the Object's by, she loves;While the gay and sudden FireKindles by some fond Desire:And a Coldness will ensue,When the Lover's out of view.Then she reflects with Scandal o'erThe easy Scene that past before:Then, with Blushes, would recalThe unconsid'ring Criminal;In which a thousand Faults she'll find,And chide the Errors of her Mind.Such fickle weight is found in Words,As no substantial Faith affords:Deceiv'd and baffl'd all may be,Who trust that frail Security.
But a well-digested Flame,That will always be the same;And that does from Merit grow,Establish'd by our Reason too;By a better way will prove,'Tis th' unerring Fire of Love.Lasting Records it will give:And, that all she says may live;Sacred and authentick stand,Her Heart confirms it by her Hand.If this, a Maid, well born, allow;Damon,believe her just and true.
Melancholy Reflections.
You will not have much trouble to explain what myWatchdesigns here. There can be no Thought more afflicting, than that of the Absence of a Mistress; and which the Sighings of the Heart will soon make you find. Ten thousand Fears oppress him; he is jealous of every body, and envies those Eyes and Ears that are charmed by being near the Object ador'd. He grows impatient, and makes a thousand Resolutions, and as soon abandonsthem all. He gives himself wholly up to the Torment of Incertainty; and by degrees, from one cruel Thought to another, winds himself up to insupportable Chagrin. Take this Hour then, to think on your Misfortunes, which cannot be small to a Soul that is wholly sensible of Love. And every one knows, that a Lover, deprived of the Object of his Heart, is deprived of all the World, and inconsolable: For tho' one wishes without ceasing for the dear Charmer one loves, and tho' you speak of her every minute; and tho' you are writing to her every day, and tho' you are infinitely pleas'd with the dear and tender Answers; yet, to speak sincerely, it must be confessed, that the Felicity of a true Lover is to be always near his Mistress. And you may tell me, ODamon! what you please; and say that Absence inspires the Flame, which perpetual Presence would satiate: I love too well to be of that mind, and when I am, I shall believe my Passion is declining. I know not whether it advances your Love; but surely it must ruin your Repose: And it is impossible to be, at once, an absent Lover, and happy too. For my part, I can meet with nothing that can please in the absence ofDamon; but on the contrary I see all things with disgust. I will flatter my self, that 'tis so with you; and that the least Evils appear great Misfortunes; and that all those who speak to you of any thing but of what you love, increase your Pain, by a new remembrance of her Absence. I will believe that these are your Sentiments, when you are assur'd not to see me in some weeks; and if your Heart do not betray your Words, all those days will be tedious to you. I would not, however, have your Melancholy too extreme; and to lessen it, you may persuade your self, that I partake it with you: for, I remember, in your last you told me, you would wish we should be both griev'd at the same time, and both at the same time pleas'd; and I believe I love too well not to obey you.
Love secur'd.
Love, of all Joys, the sweetest is,The most substantial Happiness;The softest Blessing Life can crave,The noblest Passion Souls can have.Yet, if no Interruption were,No Difficulties came between,'Twou'd not be render'd half so dear:The Sky is gayest when small Clouds are seen.The sweetest Flower, the blushing Rose,Amidst the Thorns securest grows.If Love were one continu'd Joy,How soon the Happiness would cloy!The wiser God did this foresee;And to preserve the Bliss entire,Mix'd it with Doubt and Jealousy,Those necessary Fuels to the Fire;Sustain'd the fleeting Pleasures with new Fears;With little Quarrels, Sighs and Tears;With Absence, that tormenting Smart,That makes a Minute seem a Day,A Day a Year to the impatient Heart,That languishes in the Delay,But cannot sigh the tender Pain away;That still returns, and with a greater Force,Thro' ev'ry Vein it takes its grateful Course.But whatsoe'er the Lover does sustain,Tho' he still sigh, complain, and fear;It cannot be a mortal Pain,When Two do the Affliction bear.
Love, of all Joys, the sweetest is,The most substantial Happiness;The softest Blessing Life can crave,The noblest Passion Souls can have.Yet, if no Interruption were,No Difficulties came between,'Twou'd not be render'd half so dear:The Sky is gayest when small Clouds are seen.The sweetest Flower, the blushing Rose,Amidst the Thorns securest grows.If Love were one continu'd Joy,How soon the Happiness would cloy!The wiser God did this foresee;And to preserve the Bliss entire,Mix'd it with Doubt and Jealousy,Those necessary Fuels to the Fire;Sustain'd the fleeting Pleasures with new Fears;With little Quarrels, Sighs and Tears;With Absence, that tormenting Smart,That makes a Minute seem a Day,A Day a Year to the impatient Heart,That languishes in the Delay,But cannot sigh the tender Pain away;That still returns, and with a greater Force,Thro' ev'ry Vein it takes its grateful Course.But whatsoe'er the Lover does sustain,Tho' he still sigh, complain, and fear;It cannot be a mortal Pain,When Two do the Affliction bear.
Reflections.
After the afflicting Thoughts of my Absence, make some Reflections on your Happiness. Think it a Blessingto be permitted to love me; think it so, because I permit it to you alone, and never could be drawn to allow it any other. The first thing you ought to consider, is, that at length I have suffer'd my self to be overcome, to quit that Nicety that is natural to me, and receive your Addresses; nay, thought 'em agreeable: and that I have at last confess'd, the Present of your Heart is very dear to me. 'Tis true, I did not accept of it the first time it was offer'd me, nor before you had told me a thousand times, that you could not escape expiring, if I did not give you leave to sigh for me, and gaze upon me; and that there was an absolute necessity for me, either to give you leave to love, or die. And all those Rigours my Severity has made you suffer, ought now to be recounted to your Memory, as Subjects of Pleasure; and you ought to esteem and judge of the Price of my Affections, by the Difficulties you found in being able to touch my Heart: Not but you have Charms that can conquer at first sight; and you ought not to have valu'd me less, if I had been more easily gain'd: But 'tis enough to please you, to think and know I am gain'd; no matter when and how. When, after a thousand Cares and Inquietudes, that which we wish for succeeds to our Desires, the remembrance of those Pains and Pleasures we encounter'd in arriving at it, gives us a new Joy.
Remember also,Damon, that I have preferred you before all those that have been thought worthy of my Esteem; and that I have shut my Eyes to all their pleading Merits, and could survey none but yours.
Consider then, that you had not only the Happiness to please me, but that you only found out the way of doing it, and I had the Goodness at last to tell you so, contrary to all the Delicacy and Niceness of my Soul, contrary to my Prudence, and all those Scruples, you know, are natural to my Humour.
My Tenderness proceeded further, and I gave you innocent Marks of my new-born Passion, on all occasionsthat presented themselves: For, after that from my Eyes and Tongue you knew the Sentiments of my Heart, I confirm'd that Truth to you by my Letters. Confess,Damon, that if you make these Reflections, you will not pass this Hour very disagreeably.
Beginning Love.
As free as wanton Winds I liv'd,That unconcern'd do play:No broken Faith, no Fate I griev'd;No Fortune gave me Joy.A dull Content crown'd all my Hours,My Heart no Sighs opprest;I call'd in vain on no deaf Pow'rs,To ease a tortur'd Breast.The sighing Swains regardless pin'd,And strove in vain to please:With pain I civilly was kind,But could afford no Ease.Tho' Wit and Beauty did abound,The Charm was wanting still,That could inspire the tender Wound,Or bend my careless Will.Till in my Heart a kindling FlameYour softer Sighs had blown;Which I, with striving, Love and Shame,Too sensibly did own.Whate'er the God before cou'd plead;Whate'er the Youth's Desert;The feeble Siege in vain was laidAgainst my stubborn Heart.At first my Sighs and Blushes spoke,Just when your Sighs would rise;And when you gaz'd, I wish'd to look,But durst not meet your Eyes.I trembled when my Hand you press'd,Nor cou'd my Guilt controul;But Love prevail'd, and I confess'dThe Secrets of my Soul.And when upon the giving part,My Present to avow,By all the ways confirm'd my Heart,That Honour wou'd allow;Too mean was all that I could say,Too poorly understood:I gave my Soul the noblest way,My Letters made it good.
As free as wanton Winds I liv'd,That unconcern'd do play:No broken Faith, no Fate I griev'd;No Fortune gave me Joy.A dull Content crown'd all my Hours,My Heart no Sighs opprest;I call'd in vain on no deaf Pow'rs,To ease a tortur'd Breast.
The sighing Swains regardless pin'd,And strove in vain to please:With pain I civilly was kind,But could afford no Ease.Tho' Wit and Beauty did abound,The Charm was wanting still,That could inspire the tender Wound,Or bend my careless Will.
Till in my Heart a kindling FlameYour softer Sighs had blown;Which I, with striving, Love and Shame,Too sensibly did own.Whate'er the God before cou'd plead;Whate'er the Youth's Desert;The feeble Siege in vain was laidAgainst my stubborn Heart.
At first my Sighs and Blushes spoke,Just when your Sighs would rise;And when you gaz'd, I wish'd to look,But durst not meet your Eyes.I trembled when my Hand you press'd,Nor cou'd my Guilt controul;But Love prevail'd, and I confess'dThe Secrets of my Soul.
And when upon the giving part,My Present to avow,By all the ways confirm'd my Heart,That Honour wou'd allow;Too mean was all that I could say,Too poorly understood:I gave my Soul the noblest way,My Letters made it good.
You may believe I did not easily, nor suddenly, bring my Heart to this Condescension; but I lov'd, and all things inDamonwere capable of making me resolve so to do. I could not think it a Crime, where every Grace, and every Virtue justified my Choice: And when once one is assured of this, we find not much difficulty in owning that Passion which will so well commend one's Judgment; and there is no Obstacle that Love does not surmount. I confess'd my Weakness a thousand ways, before I told it you; and I remember all those things with Pleasure, but yet I remember 'em also with Shame.
Supper.
I Will believe,Damon, that you have been so well entertained during this Hour, and have found so much Sweetness in these Thoughts, that if one did not tell you that Supper waits, you would lose your self in Reflections so pleasing, many more Minutes. But you must go where you are expected; perhaps, among the fair, the young, the gay; but do not abandon your Heart to too much Joy, tho' you have so much reason to be contented: but the greatest Pleasures are always imperfect, if the Objectbelov'd do not partake of it. For this reason be chearful and merry with reserve: Do not talk too much, I know you do not love it; and if you do it, 'twill be the effect of too much Complaisance, or with some design of pleasing too well; for you know your own charming Power, and how agreeable your Wit and Conversation are to all the World. Remember, I am covetous of every Word you speak, that is not address'd to me, and envy the happy list'ner, if I am not by. And I may reply to you asAmintadid toPhilander, when he charged her of loving a Talker: and because, perhaps, you have not heard it, I will, to divert you, send it to you; and at the same time assure you,Damon, that your more noble Quality, of speaking little, has reduc'd me to a perfect Abhorrence of those wordy Sparks, that value themselves upon their ready and much talking upon every trivial Subject, and who have so good an Opinion of their Talent that way, they will let no body edge in a word, or a reply; but will make all the Conversation themselves, that they may pass for very entertaining Persons, and pure Company. But the Verses—
The Reformation.
Philander,since you'll have it so,I grant I was impertinent;And, till this Moment, did not know,Thro' all my Life what 'twas I meant.Your kind Opinion was the flattering Glass,In which my Mind found how deform'd it was.In your clear Sense, which knows no Art,I saw the Errors of my Soul:And all the Foibless of my HeartWith one Reflection you controul.Kind as a God, and gently you chastise:By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.Impertinence, my Sex's shame,That has so long my Life pursu'd,You with such Modesty reclaim,As all the Women has subdu'd.To so Divine a Power what must I owe,That renders me so like the perfect You?That conversable Thing I hate,Already, with a just Disdain,That prides himself upon his Prate,And is, of Words, that Nonsense, vain:When in your few appears such Excellence,As have reproach'd, and charm'd me into Sense.For ever may I list'ning sit,Tho' but each Hour a Word be born;I would attend the coming Wit,And bless what can so well inform.Let the dull World henceforth to Words be damn'd;I'm into nobler Sense than Talking sham'd.
Philander,since you'll have it so,I grant I was impertinent;And, till this Moment, did not know,Thro' all my Life what 'twas I meant.Your kind Opinion was the flattering Glass,In which my Mind found how deform'd it was.
In your clear Sense, which knows no Art,I saw the Errors of my Soul:And all the Foibless of my HeartWith one Reflection you controul.Kind as a God, and gently you chastise:By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.
Impertinence, my Sex's shame,That has so long my Life pursu'd,You with such Modesty reclaim,As all the Women has subdu'd.To so Divine a Power what must I owe,That renders me so like the perfect You?
That conversable Thing I hate,Already, with a just Disdain,That prides himself upon his Prate,And is, of Words, that Nonsense, vain:When in your few appears such Excellence,As have reproach'd, and charm'd me into Sense.
For ever may I list'ning sit,Tho' but each Hour a Word be born;I would attend the coming Wit,And bless what can so well inform.Let the dull World henceforth to Words be damn'd;I'm into nobler Sense than Talking sham'd.
I believe you are so good a Lover, as to be of my Opinion; and that you will neither force your self against Nature, nor find much occasion to lavish out those excellent things that must proceed from you, whenever you speak. If all Women were like me, I should have more reason to fear your Silence than your Talk: for you have a thousand ways to charm without speaking, and those which to me shew a great deal more Concern. But,Damon, you know the greatest part of my Sex judge the fine Gentleman by the Volubility of his Tongue, by his Dexterity in Repartee, and cry—Oh! he never wants fine things to say: He's eternally talking the most surprizing things.But,Damon, you are well assur'd, I hope, thatIrisis none of theseCoquets: at least, if she had any spark of it once in her Nature, she is by the excellency of your contrary Temper taught to know, and scorn the folly:And take heed your Conduct never give me cause to suspect you have deceiv'd me in your Temper.
Complaisance.
Nevertheless,Damon, Civility requires a little Complaisance after Supper; and I am assur'd, you can never want that, tho' I confess, you are not accus'd of too general a Complaisance, and do not often make use of it to those Persons you have an Indifference for: tho' one is not the less esteemable for having more of this than one ought: and tho' an excess of it be a Fault, 'tis a very excusable one. Have therefore some for those with whom you are: You may laugh with 'em, drink with 'em, dance or sing with 'em; yet think of me. You may discourse of a thousand indifferent things with 'em; and at the same time still think of me. If the Subject be any beautiful Lady, whom they praise, either for her Person, Wit, or Virtue, you may apply it to me: And if you dare not say it aloud, at least, let your Heart answer in this language:
Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise,Can give us Love a thousand ways;Her Wit and Beauty charming are;But still myIrisis more fair.
Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise,Can give us Love a thousand ways;Her Wit and Beauty charming are;But still myIrisis more fair.
No body ever spoke before me of a faithful Lover, but still I sigh'd, and thought ofDamon: And ever when they tell me Tales of Love, any soft pleasing Intercourses of an Amour; Oh! with what Pleasures do I listen! and with Pleasure answer 'em, either with my Eyes, or Tongue—
That Lover may hisSylviawarm,But cannot, like myDamon,charm.
That Lover may hisSylviawarm,But cannot, like myDamon,charm.
If I have not all those excellent Qualities you meet with in those beautiful People, I am however very glad that Love prepossesses your Heart to my advantage: And Ineed not tell you,Damon, that a true Lover ought to persuade himself, that all other Objects ought to give place to her, for whom his Heart sighs—But see, myCupidtells you 'tis One o'Clock, and that you ought not to be longer from your Apartment; where, while you are undressing, I will give you leave to say to your self—
The Regret.
Alas! and must the Sun decline,Before it have inform'd my EyesOf all that's glorious, all that's fine,Of all I sigh for, all I prize?How joyful were those happy Days,WhenIrisspread her charming Rays,Did my unwearied Heart inspireWith never-ceasing awful Fire,And e'ery Minute gave me new Desire!But now, alas! all dead and pale,Like Flow'rs that wither in the Shade:Where no kind Sun-beams can prevail,To raise its cold and fading Head,I sink into my useless Bed.I grasp the senseless Pillow as I lie;A thousand times, in vain, I sighing cry,Ah! wou'd to Heaven myIriswere as nigh.
Alas! and must the Sun decline,Before it have inform'd my EyesOf all that's glorious, all that's fine,Of all I sigh for, all I prize?How joyful were those happy Days,WhenIrisspread her charming Rays,Did my unwearied Heart inspireWith never-ceasing awful Fire,And e'ery Minute gave me new Desire!But now, alas! all dead and pale,Like Flow'rs that wither in the Shade:Where no kind Sun-beams can prevail,To raise its cold and fading Head,I sink into my useless Bed.I grasp the senseless Pillow as I lie;A thousand times, in vain, I sighing cry,Ah! wou'd to Heaven myIriswere as nigh.
Impossibility to Sleep.
You have been up long enough; andCupid, who takes care of your Health, tells you, 'tis time for you to go to bed. Perhaps you may not sleep as soon as you are laid, and possibly you may pass an Hour in Bed, before you shut your Eyes. In this impossibility of sleeping, I think it very proper for you to imagine what I am doing where I am. Let your Fancy take a little Journey then, invisible,to observe my Actions and my Conduct. You will find me sitting alone in my Cabinet (for I am one that do not love to go to bed early) and will find me very uneasy and pensive, pleas'd with none of those things that so well entertain others. I shun all Conversation, as far as Civility will allow, and find no Satisfaction like being alone, where my Soul may, without interruption, converse withDamon. I sigh, and sometimes you will see my Cheeks wet with Tears, that insensibly glide down at a thousand Thoughts that present themselves soft and afflicting. I partake of all your Inquietude. On other things I think with indifference, if ever my Thoughts do stray from the more agreeable Object. I find, however, a little Sweetness in this Thought, that, during my Absence, your Heart thinks of me, when mine sighs for you. Perhaps I am mistaken, and that at the same time that you are the Entertainment of all my Thoughts, I am no more in yours; and perhaps you are thinking of those things that immortalize the Young and Brave, either by those Glories the Muses flatter you with, or that ofBellona, and the God of War; and serving now a Monarch, whose glorious Acts in Arms has out-gone all the feign'd and real Heroes of any Age, who has, himself, out-done whatever History can produce of great and brave, and set so illustrious an Example to the Under-World, that it is not impossible, as much a Lover as you are, but you are thinking now how to render your self worthy the Glory of such a God-like Master, by projecting a thousand things of Gallantry and Danger. And tho', I confess, such Thoughts are proper for your Youth, your Quality, and the Place you have the honour to hold under our Sovereign, yet let me tell you,Damon, you will not be without Inquietude, if you think of either being a delicate Poet, or a brave Warrior; forLovewill still interrupt your Glory, however you may think to divert him either by writing or fighting. And you ought to remember these Verses:
Love and Glory.
Beneath the kind protecting Laurel's shade,For sighing Lovers, and for Warriors made,The softAdonis,and roughMarswere laid.Both were design'd to take their Rest;ButLovethe gentle Boy opprest,And false Alarms shook the stern Heroe's Breast.This thinks to soften all his Toils of War,In the dear Arms of the obliging Fair;And that, by Hunting, to divert his Care.All Day, o'er Hills and Plains, wild Beasts he chas'd,Swift as the flying Winds, his eager haste;In vain, the God of Love pursues as fast.But oh! no Sports, no Toils, divertive prove,The Evening still returns him to the Grove,To sigh and languish for the Queen of Love:Where Elegies and Sonnets he does frame,And to the list'ning Echoes sighs her Name,And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame.The Warrior in the dusty Camp all dayWith rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essayTo fright the tender flatt'ring God away.But still, alas, in vain: whate'er Delight,What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,Lovestill revenges it at night.'Tis then he haunts the Royal Tent,The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,And all his Resolutions does prevent.In all his Pains,Lovemixt his Smart;In every Wound he feels a Dart;And the soft God is trembling in his Heart.Then he retires to shady Groves,And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,And strives to fly from what he cannot lose.While thus he lay,Bellonacame,And with a gen'rous fierce Disdain,Upbraids him with his feeble Flame.Arise, the World's great Terror, and their Care;Behold the glitt'ring Host from far,That waits the Conduct of the God of War.Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were madeTo crown the noble Victor's Head,Why thus supinely art thou laid?Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew,Thy Sun-parch'd Cheeks why do I viewThe shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?What God has wrought these universal Harms?What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms,Has made the Heroe deaf to War's Alarms?Now let the conqu'ring Ensigns up be furl'd:Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl'd;And idle, lose the Empire of the World.In fond effeminate Delights go on;Lose all the Glories you have won:Bravely resolve to love, and be undone.'Tis thus the martial Virgin pleads;Thus she the am'rous God persuadesTo fly fromVenus,and the flow'ry Meads.
Beneath the kind protecting Laurel's shade,For sighing Lovers, and for Warriors made,The softAdonis,and roughMarswere laid.
Both were design'd to take their Rest;ButLovethe gentle Boy opprest,And false Alarms shook the stern Heroe's Breast.
This thinks to soften all his Toils of War,In the dear Arms of the obliging Fair;And that, by Hunting, to divert his Care.
All Day, o'er Hills and Plains, wild Beasts he chas'd,Swift as the flying Winds, his eager haste;In vain, the God of Love pursues as fast.
But oh! no Sports, no Toils, divertive prove,The Evening still returns him to the Grove,To sigh and languish for the Queen of Love:
Where Elegies and Sonnets he does frame,And to the list'ning Echoes sighs her Name,And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame.
The Warrior in the dusty Camp all dayWith rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essayTo fright the tender flatt'ring God away.
But still, alas, in vain: whate'er Delight,What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,Lovestill revenges it at night.
'Tis then he haunts the Royal Tent,The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,And all his Resolutions does prevent.
In all his Pains,Lovemixt his Smart;In every Wound he feels a Dart;And the soft God is trembling in his Heart.
Then he retires to shady Groves,And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,And strives to fly from what he cannot lose.
While thus he lay,Bellonacame,And with a gen'rous fierce Disdain,Upbraids him with his feeble Flame.
Arise, the World's great Terror, and their Care;Behold the glitt'ring Host from far,That waits the Conduct of the God of War.
Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were madeTo crown the noble Victor's Head,Why thus supinely art thou laid?
Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew,Thy Sun-parch'd Cheeks why do I viewThe shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?
What God has wrought these universal Harms?What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms,Has made the Heroe deaf to War's Alarms?
Now let the conqu'ring Ensigns up be furl'd:Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl'd;And idle, lose the Empire of the World.
In fond effeminate Delights go on;Lose all the Glories you have won:Bravely resolve to love, and be undone.
'Tis thus the martial Virgin pleads;Thus she the am'rous God persuadesTo fly fromVenus,and the flow'ry Meads.
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 floweryBeds, 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.
Conversation in Dreams.
I doubt not but you will think it very bold and arbitrary, that myWatchshould pretend to rule even your sleeping Hours, and that myCupidshould 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' myWatchdoes 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 myWatchpermits 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 fromDamon, 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,