_In the just Conduct of your Eyes._
_The Heart, by Nature good and brave,_
_Is to those treacherous Guards a Slave._
_If they let in the fair destructive Foe,_
_Scarce Honour can defend her noble Seat:_
_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.
SEVEN o’.LOCK.
_Voluntary Retreat._
’.is 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 fair_
_As 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;_
_’.is 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 known_
_To the false Trader, or the falser Gown._
_And_ (Damon) _tho’ thy noble Blood_
_Be most illustrious, and refin’d;_
_Tho’ ev’ry Grace and ev’ry Good_
_Adorn 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._
EIGHT o’.LOCK.
_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 if I
could not well speak, and was silent? If I read it attentively, and
with Joy? And all this, before you open the Answer I have sent you by
him: which, because you are impatient to read, you, with the more haste
and earnestness, demand all you expect from him; and that you may the
better know what Humour I was in, when I writ that to you: For, Oh! a
Lover has a thousand little Fears, and Dreads, he knows not why. In
fine, make him recount to you all that past, while he was with me; and
then you ought to read that which I have sent, that you may inform 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 ways_
_She does his Wit and Beauty praise;_
_Or she venture to explain,_
_In less moving Words, a Pain;_
_Tho’ so indiscreet she grows,_
_To confirm it with her Vows?_
_These some short-liv’d Passion moves,_
_While the Object’s by, she loves;_
_While the gay and sudden Fire_
_Kindles by some fond Desire:_
_And a Coldness will ensue,_
_When the Lover’s out of view._
_Then she reflects with Scandal o’er_
_The easy Scene that past before:_
_Then, with Blushes, would recal_
_The unconsid’ring Criminal;_
_In which a thousand Faults she’ll find,_
_And chide the Errors of her Mind._
_Such fickle weight is found in Words,_
_As no substantial Faith affords:_
_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,_
_’.is 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._
NINE o’.LOCK.
_Melancholy Reflections._
You will not have much trouble to explain what my _Watch_ designs here.
There can be no Thought more afflicting, than that of the Absence of
a Mistress; and which the 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 abandons them 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, O _Damon_! what you please; and say that Absence inspires the
Flame, which perpetual Presence would satiate: I love too well to be
of that mind, and when I am, I shall believe my Passion is declining.
I know not whether it advances your Love; but surely it must ruin your
Repose: And 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 of _Damon_; 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,_
_’.wou’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._
TEN o’.LOCK.
_Reflections._
After the afflicting Thoughts of my Absence, make some Reflections on
your Happiness. Think it a Blessing to be permitted to love me; think
it so, because I permit it to you alone, and never could be drawn to
allow it any other. The first thing you ought to consider, is, that
at length I have 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 occasions that 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 Flame_
_Your 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 laid_
_Against 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’d_
_The 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 in _Damon_ were capable of
making me resolve so to do. I could not think it a Crime, where every
Grace, and every Virtue justified my Choice: And when once one is
assured of this, we find not much difficulty in owning that Passion
which will so well commend one’s 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.
ELEVEN o’.LOCK.
_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
Object belov’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 as _Aminta_ did to _Philander_, when he charged her
of loving a Talker: and because, perhaps, you have not heard it, I
will, to divert you, send it 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 Heart_
_With 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, that _Iris_ is none of these _Coquets_: at least,
if she had any spark of it once in her Nature, she is by the excellency
of your contrary Temper taught to know, and scorn the folly: And take
heed your Conduct never give me cause to suspect you have deceiv’d me
in your Temper.
TWELVE o’.LOCK.
_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 my_ Iris _is more fair._
No body ever spoke before me of a faithful Lover, but still I sigh’d,
and thought of _Damon_: 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 his_ Sylvia _warm,_
_But cannot, like my_ Damon, _charm._
If I have not all those excellent Qualities you meet with in those
beautiful People, I am however very glad that Love prepossesses your
Heart to my advantage: And I need not tell you, _Damon_, that a true
Lover ought to persuade himself, that all other Objects ought to give
place to her, for whom his Heart sighs--But see, my _Cupid_ tells
you ‘tis One o’.lock, 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 Eyes_
_Of all that’s glorious, all that’s fine,_
_Of all I sigh for, all I prize?_
_How joyful were those happy Days,_
_When_ Iris _spread her charming Rays,_
_Did my unwearied Heart inspire_
_With 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 my_ Iris _were as nigh._
ONE o’.LOCK.
_Impossibility to Sleep._
You have been up long enough; and _Cupid_, who takes care of your
Health, tells you, ‘tis time for you to go to bed. Perhaps you may not
sleep as soon as you are laid, and possibly you may pass an Hour in
Bed, before you shut your Eyes. In this impossibility of sleeping, I
think it very proper for you to imagine what I am doing where I am.
Let your Fancy take a little Journey then, invisible, to observe my
Actions and my Conduct. You will find me sitting alone in my Cabinet
(for I am one that do not love to go to bed early) and will find me
very uneasy and pensive, 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 with _Damon_. I sigh, and
sometimes you will see my Cheeks wet with Tears, that insensibly
glide down at a thousand Thoughts that present themselves soft and
afflicting. I partake of all your Inquietude. On other things I
think with indifference, if ever my Thoughts do stray from the more
agreeable Object. I find, however, a little Sweetness in this Thought,
that, during my Absence, your Heart thinks of me, when mine sighs
for you. Perhaps I am mistaken, and that at the same time that you
are the Entertainment of all my Thoughts, I am no more in yours; and
perhaps you are thinking of those things that immortalize the Young
and Brave, either by those Glories the Muses flatter you with, or
that of _Bellona_, 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; for _Love_ will 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 soft_ Adonis, _and rough_ Mars _were laid._
_Both were design’d to take their Rest;_
_But_ Love _the 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 day_
_With rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essay_
_To fright the tender flatt’ring God away._
_But still, alas, in vain: whate’er Delight,_
_What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,_
Love _still revenges it at night._
_’.is then he haunts the Royal Tent,_
_The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,_
_And all his Resolutions does prevent._
_In all his Pains,_ Love _mixt his Smart;_
_In every Wound he feels a Dart;_
_And the soft God is trembling in his Heart._
_Then he retires to shady Groves,_
_And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,_
_And strives to fly from what he cannot lose._
_While thus he lay,_ Bellona _came,_
_And with a gen’rous fierce Disdain,_
_Upbraids him with his feeble Flame._