or, The Art of Charming.
_Sent from_ DAMON _to_ IRIS.
How long, Oh charming _Iris_! shall I speak in vain of your adorable
Beauty? You have been just, and believe I love you with a Passion
perfectly tender and extreme, and yet you will not allow your Charms
to be infinite. You must either accuse my Flames to be unreasonable,
and that my Eyes and Heart are false Judges of Wit and Beauty; or allow
that you are the most perfect of your Sex. But instead of that, you
always accuse me of Flattery, when I speak of your infinite Merit; and
when I refer you to your Glass, you tell me, that flatters as well as
_Damon_: tho’ one would imagine, that should be a good Witness for the
Truth of what I say, and undeceive you of the Opinion of my Injustice.
Look--and confirm your self that nothing can equal your Perfections.
All the World says it, and you must doubt it no longer. Oh _Iris_! will
you dispute against the whole World?
But since you have so long distrusted your own Glass, I have here
presented you with one, which I know is very true; and having been
made for you only, can serve only you. All other Glasses present all
Objects, but this reflects only _Iris_: Whenever you consult it, it
will convince you; and tell you how much Right I have done you, when I
told you, you were the fairest Person that ever Nature made. When other
Beauties look into it, it will speak to all the Fair Ones: but let ‘em
do what they will, ‘twill say nothing to their advantage.
Iris, _to spare what you call Flattery,_
_Consult your Glass each Hour of the Day:_
_’.will tell you where your Charms and Beauties lie,_
_And where your little wanton Graces play:_
_Where Love does revel in your Face and Eyes;_
_What Look invites your Slaves, and what denies._
_Where all the_ Loves _adorn you with such Care,_
_Where dress your Smiles, where arm your lovely Eyes;_
_Where deck the flowing Tresses of your Hair:_
_How cause your snowy Breasts to fall and rise._
_How this severe Glance makes a Lover die;_
_How that, more soft, gives Immortality._
_Where you shall see what ‘tis enslaves the Soul;_
_Where e’ery Feature, e’ery Look combines:_
_When the adorning Air, o’er all the whole,_
_To so much Wit, and so nice Virtue joins._
_Where the_ Belle Taille_, and Motion still afford_
_Graces to be eternally adored._
But I will be silent now, and let your Glass speak.
IRIS’s _LOOKING-GLASS_.
_Damon_ (Oh charming _Iris_!) has given me to you, that you may
sometimes give your self the Trouble, and me the Honour of consulting
me in the great and weighty Affairs of Beauty. I am, my adorable
Mistress! a faithful Glass; and you ought to believe all I say to you.
_The SHAPE of_ IRIS.
I must begin with your Shape, and tell you without Flattery, ‘tis the
finest in the World, and gives Love and Admiration to all that see you.
Pray observe how free and easy it is, without Constraint, Stiffness, or
Affectation; those mistaken Graces of the Fantastick, and the Formal,
who give themselves pain to shew their Will to please, and whose
Dressing makes the greatest part of its Fineness, when they are more
oblig’d to the Taylor than to Nature; who add or diminish, as occasion
serves, to form a Grace, where Heaven never gave it: And while they
remain on this Wreck of Pride, they are eternally uneasy, without
pleasing any body. _Iris_, I have seen a Woman of your Acquaintance,
who, having a greater Opinion of her own Person than any body else, has
screw’d her Body into so fine a Form (as she calls it) that she dares
no more stir a Hand, lift up an Arm, or turn her Head aside, than if,
for the Sin of such a Disorder, she were to be turn’d into a Pillar of
Salt; the less stiff and fix’d Statue of the two. Nay, she dares not
speak or smile, lest she should put her Face out of that Order she had
set it in her Glass, when she last look’d on her self: And is all over
such a _Lady Nice_ (excepting in her Conversation) that ever made a
ridiculous Figure. And there are many Ladies more, but too much tainted
with that nauseous Formality, that old-fashion’d Vice: But _Iris_, the
charming, the all-perfect _Iris_, has nothing in her whole Form that is
not free, natural, and easy; and whose every Motion cannot but please
extremely; and which has not given _Damon_ a thousand Rivals.
Damon, _the young, the am’rous, and the true,_
_Who sighs incessantly for you;_
_Whose whole Delight, now you are gone,_
_Is to retire to Shades alone,_
_And to the Echoes make his moan._
_By purling Streams the wishing Youth is laid,_
_Still sighing_ Iris! _lovely charming Maid!_
_See, in thy Absence, how thy Lover dies!_
_While to his Sighs the Echo still replies._
_Then with the Stream he holds Discourse:_
_O thou that bend’st thy liquid Force_
_To lovely_ Thames! _upon whose Shore_
_The Maid resides whom I adore!_
_My Tears of Love upon thy Surface bear:_
_And if upon thy Banks thou seest my Fair:_
_In all thy softest Murmurs sing,_
From _Damon_ I this Present bring;
My e’ery Curl contains a Tear!
_Then at her Feet thy Tribute pay:_
_But haste, O happy Stream! away;_
_Lest charm’d too much, thou shouldst for ever stay._
_And thou, Oh gentle, murm’ring Breeze!_
_That plays in Air, and wantons with the Trees;_
_On thy young Wings, where gilded Sun-beams play,_
_To_ Iris _my soft Sighs convey,_
_Still as they rise, each Minute of the Day:_
_But whisper gently in her Ear;_
_Let not the ruder Winds thy Message bear,_
_Nor ruffle one dear Curl of her bright Hair._
_Oh! touch her Cheeks with sacred Reverence,_
_And stay not gazing on her lovely Eyes!_
_But if thou bear’st her rosy Breath from thence,_
_’.is Incense of that Excellence,_
_That as thou mount’st, ‘twill perfume all the Skies._
IRIS_’. COMPLEXION_.
Say what you will, I am confident, if you will confess your Heart,
you are, every time you view your self in me, surpris’d at the Beauty
of your Complexion; and will secretly own, you never saw any thing so
fair. I am not the first Glass, by a thousand, that has assur’d you of
this. If you will not believe me, ask _Damon_; he tells it you every
Day, but that Truth from him offends you: and because he loves too
much, you think his Judgment too little; and since this is so perfect,
that must be defective. But ‘tis most certain your Complexion is
infinitely fine, your Skin soft and smooth as polisht Wax, or Ivory,
extreamely white and clear; tho’ if any body speaks but of your Beauty,
an agreeable Blush casts it self all over your Face, and gives you a
thousand new Graces.
_And then two Flowers newly born._
_Shine in your Heav’nly Face;_
_The Rose that blushes in the Morn,_
_Usurps the Lilly’s place:_
_Sometimes the Lilly does prevail._
_And makes the gen’rous Crimson pale._
IRIS_’. HAIR_.
Oh, the beautiful Hair of _Iris_! it seems as if Nature had crown’d you
with a great quantity of lovely fair brown Hair, to make us know that
you were born to rule, and to repair the Faults of Fortune that has not
given you a Diadem: And do not bewail the Want of that (so much your
Merit’s due) since Heaven has so gloriously recompensed you with what
gains more admiring Slaves.
_Heav’n for Sovereignty has made your Form:_
_And you were more than for dull Empire born;_
_O’er Hearts your Kingdom shall extend,_
_Your vast Dominion know no End._
_Thither the_ Loves _and_ Graces _shall resort;_
_To_ Iris _make their Homage, and their Court._
_No envious Star, no common Fate,_ }
_Did on my_ Iris’ _Birth-day wait;_ }
_But all was happy, all was delicate._ }
_Here Fortune would inconstant be in vain:_
Iris, _and_ Love _eternally shall reign._
_Love_ does not make less use of your Hair for new Conquests, than of
all the rest of your Beauties that adorn you. If he takes our Hearts
with your fine Eyes, it ties ‘em fast with your Hair; and of it weaves
a Chain, not easily broken. It is not of those sorts of Hair, whose
Harshness discovers Ill-Nature; nor of those, whose Softness shews
us the Weakness of the Mind; not that either of these Arguments are
without exception: but ‘tis such as bears the Character of a perfect
Mind, and a delicate Wit; and for its Colour, the most faithful,
discreet, and beautiful in the World: such as shews a Complexion and
Constitution, neither so cold to be insensible, nor so hot to have
too much Fire: that is, neither too white, nor too black; but such a
mixture of the two Colours, as makes it the most agreeable in the World.
_’.is that which leads those captivated Hearts,_
_That bleeding at your Feet do lie;_
_’.is that the Obstinate converts,_
_That dare the Power of Love deny:_
_’.is that which_ Damon _so admires;_
Damon, _who often tells you so._
_If from your Eyes_ Love _takes his Fires,_
_’.is with your Hair he strings his Bow:_
_Which touching but the feather’d Dart,_
_It never mist the destin’d Heart._
IRIS’.s EYES._
I believe, my fair Mistress, I shall dazzle you with the Lustre of
your own Eyes. They are the finest Blue in World: They have all the
Sweetness that ever charm’d the Heart, with a certain Languishment
that’s irresistible; and never any look’d on ‘em, that did not sigh
after ‘em. Believe me, _Iris_, they carry unavoidable Darts and
Fires; and whoever expose themselves to their Dangers, pay for their
Imprudence.
_Cold as my solid Chrystal is,_
_Hard and impenetrable too;_
_Yet I am sensible of Bliss,_
_When your charming Eyes I view:_
_Even by me their Flames are felt;_
_And at each Glance I fear to melt._
_Ah, how pleasant are my Days!_
_How my glorious Fate I bless!_
_Mortals never knew my Joys,_
_Nor Monarchs guest my Happiness._
_Every Look that’s soft and gay,_
Iris _gives me every Day._
_Spight of her Virtue and her Pride,_
_Every Morning I am blest_
_With what to_ Damon _is deny’d;_
_To view her when she is undrest._
_All her Heaven of Beauty’s shown_
_To triumphing Me----alone._
_Scarce the prying Beams of Light,_
_Or th’ impatient God of Day,_
_Are allow’d so near a Sight,_
_Or dare profane her with a Ray;_
_When she has appear’d to me,_
_Like_ Venus _rising from the Sea._
_But Oh! I must those Charms conceal,_
_All too divine for vulgar Eyes:_
_Should I my secret Joys reveal,_
_Of sacred Trust I break the Ties;_
_And_ Damon _would with Envy die,_
_Who hopes one Day to be as blest as I._
Extravagant with my Joys, I have stray’d beyond my Limits; for I was
telling you of the wond’rous Fineness of your Eyes, which no Mortal
can resist, nor any Heart stand the Force of their Charms, and the
most difficult Conquest they gain, scarce cost ‘em the expence of a
Look. They are modest and tender, chaste and languishing. There you may
take a view of the whole Soul, and see Wit and Good-Nature (those two
inseparable Virtues of the Mind) in an extraordinary measure. In fine,
you see all that fair Eyes can produce, to make themselves ador’d. And
when they are angry, they strike an unresistible Awe upon the Soul;
And those Severities _Damon_ wishes may perpetually accompany them,
during their Absence from him; for ‘tis with such Eyes, he would have
you receive all his Rivals.
_Keep, lovely Maid, the Softness In your Eyes,_
_To flatter_ Damon _with another Day:_
_When at your Feet the ravish’d Lover lies,_
_Then put on all that’s tender, all that’s gay:_
_And for the Griefs your Absence makes him prove,_
_Give him the softest, dearest Looks of Love._
_His trembling Heart with sweetest Smiles caress,_
_And in your Eyes soft Wishes let him find;_
_That your Regret of Absence may confess,_
_In which no Sense of Pleasure you could find:_
_And to restore him, let your faithful Eyes_
_Declare, that all his Rivals you despise._
_The MOUTH of_ IRIS.
I perceive your Modesty would impose Silence on me: But, Oh fair
_Iris_! do not think to present your self before a Glass, if you would
not have it tell you all your Beauties. Content your self that I only
speak of ‘em, _en passant_; for should I speak what I would, I should
dwell all Day upon each Particular, and still say something new. Give
me liberty then to speak of your fine Mouth: You need only open it a
little, and you will see the most delicate Teeth that ever you beheld;
the whitest, and the best set. Your Lips are the finest in the World;
so round, so soft, so plump, so dimpled, and of the loveliest Colour.
And when you smile, Oh! what Imagination can conceive how sweet it is,
that has not seen you smiling? I cannot describe what I so admire; and
’.is in vain to those who have not seen _Iris_.
_Oh_ Iris! _boast that one peculiar Charm,_
_That has so many Conquests made;_
_So innocent, yet capable of Harm;_
_So just it self, yet has so oft betray’d:_
_Where a thousand Graces dwell,_
_And wanton round in ev’ry Smile._
_A thousand Loves do listen when you speak,_
_And catch each Accent as it flies:_
_Rich flowing Wit, whene’er you Silence break,_
_Flows from your Tongue, and sparkles in your Eyes._
_Whether you talk, or silent are,_
_Your Lips immortal Beauties wear._
_The NECK of_ IRIS.
All your Modesty, all your nice Care, cannot hide the ravishing
Beauties of your Neck; we must see it, coy as you are; and see it the
whitest, and finest shaped, that ever was form’d. Oh! why will you
cover it? You know all handsome Things would be seen. And Oh! how often
have you made your Lovers envy your Scarf, or any thing that hides so
fine an Object from their Sight. _Damon_ himself complains of your too
nice Severity. Pray do not hide it so carefully. See how perfectly
turn’d it is! with small blue Veins, wand’ring and ranging here and
there, like little Rivulets, that wanton o’er the flowery Meads! See
how the round white rising Breasts heave with every Breath, as if they
disdain’d to be confin’d to a Covering; and repel the malicious Cloud
that would obscure their Brightness!
_Fain I would have leave to tell_
_The Charms that on your Bosom dwell;_
_Describe it like some flow’ry Field,_
_That does ten thousand Pleasures yield;_
_A thousand gliding Springs and Groves;_
_All Receptacles for Loves:_
_But Oh! what_ Iris _hides, must be_
_Ever sacred kept by me._
_The ARMS and HANDS of_ IRIS.
I shall not be put to much trouble to shew you your Hands and Arms,
because you may view them without my Help; and you are very unjust, if
you have not admir’d ‘em a thousand times. The beautiful Colour and
Proportion of your Arm is unimitable, and your Hand is dazzling, fine,
small, and plump; long-pointed Fingers delicately turned; dimpled on
the snowy out-side, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft
Palm. Oh _Iris_! nothing equals your fair Hand; that Hand, of which
_Love_ so often makes such use to draw his Bow, when he would send the
Arrow home with more Success; and which irresistibly wounds those, who
possibly have not yet seen your Eyes: And when you have been veil’d,
that lovely Hand has gain’d you a thousand Adorers. And I have heard
_Damon_ say, _Without the Aid of more Beauties, that alone had been
sufficient to have made an absolute Conquest, o’er his Soul_. And
he has often vow’d, _It never toucht him but it made his Blood run
with little irregular Motions in his Veins, his Breath beat short and
double, his Blushes rise, and his very Soul dance_.
_Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize_
_’.ove any one peculiar Grace,_
_While he is dying for the Eyes_
_And doating on the lovely Face!_
_The Unconsid’ring little knows,_
_How much he to this Beauty owes._
_That, when the Lover absent is,_
_Informs him of his Mistress’ Heart;_
_’.is 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._
_’.is that betrays the Tenderness,_
_Which the too bashful Tongue denies:_
_’.is that which does the Heart confess,_
_And spares the Language of the Eyes._
_’.is that which Treasure gives so vast;_
_Ev’n Iris ‘twill to Damon give at last._
_The GRACE and AIR of_ IRIS.
’.is I alone, O charming Maid! that can shew you that noble part of
your Beauty: That generous Air that adorns all your lovely Person,
and renders every Motion and Action perfectly adorable. With what a
Grace you walk!--How free, how easy, and how unaffected! See how you
move!--for only here you can see it. _Damon_ has told you a thousand
times, that never any Mortal had so glorious an Air: but he cou’d not
half describe it, nor would you credit even what he said; but with
a careless Smile pass it off for the Flattery of a Lover. But here
behold, and be convinc’d, and know, no part of your Beauty can charm
more than this. O _Iris_! confess, Love has adorn’d you with all his
Art and Care. Your Beauties are the Themes of all the Muses; who tell
you in daily Songs, that the Graces themselves have not more than
_Iris_. And one may truly say, that you alone know how to join the
Ornaments and Dress with Beauty; and you are still adorn’d, as if that
Shape and Air had a peculiar Art to make all Things appear gay and
fine. Oh! how well drest you are! How every Thing becomes you! Never
singular, never gawdy; but always suiting with your Quality.
_Oh! how that Negligence becomes your Air!_
_That careless Flowing of your Hair,_
_That plays about with wanton Grace,_
_With every Motion of your Face:_
_Disdaining all that dull Formality,_
_That dares not move the Lip, or Eye,_
_But at some fancy’d Grace’s cost;_
_And think, with it, at least, a Lover lost._
_But the unlucky Minute to reclaim,_ }
_And ease the Coquet of her Pain,_ }
_The Pocket-Glass adjusts the Face again:_ }
_Re-sets the Mouth, and languishes the Eyes;_
_And thinks, the Spark that ogles that way--dies._
_Of_ _Iris learn, Oh ye mistaken Fair!_
_To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air:_
_Let easy Nature all the Bus’ness do,_
_She can the softest Graces shew;_
_Which Art but turns to ridicule,_
_And where there’s none serves but to shew the Fool._
_In_ Iris _you all Graces find;_
_Charms without Art, a Motion unconfin’d;_
_Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks;_
_And without Affectation, moves and walks._
_Beauties so perfect ne’er were seen:_
_O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by_ Iris’ _Mein._
_The DISCRETION of_ IRIS.
But, O _Iris_! the Beauties of the Body are imperfect, if the Beauties
of the Soul do not advance themselves to an equal Height. But, O
_Iris_! what Mortal is there so damn’d to Malice, that does not, with
Adoration, confess, that you, O charming Maid, have an equal Portion
of all the Braveries and Virtues of the Mind? And who is it, that
confesses your Beauty, that does not at the same time acknowledge and
bow to your Wisdom? The whole World admires both in you; and all with
impatience ask, Which of the two is most surprizing, your Beauty, or
your Discretion? But we dispute in vain on that excellent Subject; for
after all, ‘tis determin’d, that the two Charms are equal. ‘Tis none of
those idle Discretions that consists in Words alone, and ever takes
the Shadow of Reason for the Substance; and that makes use of all the
little Artifices of Subtlety, and florid Talking, to make the Out-side
of the Argument appear fine, and leave the Inside wholly misunderstood;
who runs away with Words, and never thinks of Sense. But you, O lovely
Maid! never make use of these affected Arts; but without being too
brisk or too severe, too silent or too talkative, you inspire in all
your Hearers a Joy, and a Respect. Your Soul is an Enemy to that usual
Vice of your Sex, of using little Arguments against the Fair; or, by a
Word or Jest, making your self and Hearers pleasant at the expence of
the Fame of others.
Your Heart is an Enemy to all Passions, but that of Love. And this is
one of your noble Maxims, _That every one ought to love, in some part
of his Life; and that in a Heart truly brave, Love is without Folly:
That Wisdom is a Friend to Love, and Love to perfect Wisdom._ Since
these Maxims are your own, do not, O charming _Iris_! resist that noble
Passion: and since _Damon_ is the most tender of Lovers, answer his
Passion with a noble Ardour. Your Prudence never fails in the Choice
of your Friends; and in chusing so well your Lover, you will stand an
eternal Precedent to all unreasonable Fair Ones.
_O thou that dost excel in Wit and Youth!_
_Be still a Precedent for Love and Truth._
_Let the dull World say what it will,_
_A noble Flame’s unblameable._
_Where a fine Sent’ment and soft Passion rules,_
_They scorn the Censure of the Fools._
_Yield,_ Iris, _then; Oh, yield to Love!_
_Redeem your dying Slave from Pain;_
_The World your Conduct must approve:_
_Your Prudence never acts in vain._
_The GOODNESS and COMPLAISANCE of_ IRIS.
Who but your Lovers, fair _Iris_! doubts but you are the most
complaisant Person in the World; and that with so much Sweetness you
oblige all, that you command in yielding: And as you gain the Heart
of both Sexes, with the Affability of your noble Temper; so all are
proud and vain of obliging you. And, _Iris_, you may live assur’d, that
your Empire is eternally established by your Beauty and your Goodness:
Your Power is confirm’d, and you grow in Strength every Minute: Your
Goodness gets you Friends, and your Beauty Lovers.
This Goodness is not one of those, whose Folly renders it easy to every
Desirer; but a pure Effect of the Generosity of your Soul; such as
Prudence alone manages, according to the Merit of the Person to whom
it is extended; and those whom you esteem, receive the sweet Marks of
it, and only your Lovers complain; yet even then you charm. And tho’
sometimes you can be a little disturb’d, yet thro’ your Anger your
Goodness shines; and you are but too much afraid, that that may bear
a false Interpretation: For oftentimes Scandal makes that pass for an
Effect of Love, which is purely that of Complaisance.
Never had any body more Tenderness for their Friends, than _Iris_:
Their Presence gives her Joy, their Absence Trouble; and when
she cannot see them, she finds no Pleasure like speaking of them
obligingly. Friendship reigns in your Heart, and Sincerity on your
Tongue. Your Friendship is so strong, so constant, and so tender, that
it charms, pleases, and satisfies all, that are not your Adorers.
_Damon_ therefore is excusable, if he be not contented with your noble
Friendship alone; for he is the most tender of that Number.
_No! give me all, th’ impatient Lover cries;_
_Without your Soul I cannot live:_
_Dull Friendship cannot mine suffice,_
_That dies for all you have to give._
_The Smiles, the Vows, the Heart must all be mine;_
_I cannot spare one Thought, or Wish of thine._
_I sigh, I languish all the Day;_
_Each Minute ushers in my Groans:_
_To ev’ry God in vain I pray;_
_In ev’ry Grove repeat my Moans._
_Still_ Iris’ _Charms are all my Sorrows Themes!_
_They pain me waking, and they rack in Dreams._
_Return, fair_ Iris! _Oh, return!_
_Lest sighing long your Slave destroys._
_I wish, I rave, I faint, I burn;_
_Restore me quickly all my Joys:_
_Your Mercy else will come too late;_
_Distance in Love more cruel is than Hate._
_The WIT of_ IRIS.
You are deceiv’d in me, fair _Iris_, if you take me for one of those
ordinary Glasses, that represent the Beauty only of the Body; I remark
to you also the Beauties of the Soul: And all about you declares yours
the finest that ever was formed; that you have a Wit that surprizes,
and is always new: ‘Tis none of those that loses its Lustre when one
considers it; the more we examine yours, the more adorable we find it.
You say nothing that is not at once agreeable and solid; ‘tis always
quick and ready, without Impertinence, that little Vanity of the Fair:
who, when they know they have Wit, rarely manage it so, as not to
abound in Talking; and think, that all they say must please, because
luckily they sometimes chance to do so. But _Iris_ never speaks, but
’.is of use; and gives a Pleasure to all that hear her: She has the
perfect Air of penetrating, even the most secret Thoughts. How often
have you known, without being told, all that has past in _Damon’s_
Heart? For all great Wits are Prophets too.
_Tell me; Oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess;_
_For you alone can tell my Love’s Success._
_The Lines in my dejected Face,_
_I fear, will lead you to no kind Result:_
_It is your own that you must trace;_
_Those of your Heart you must consult._
_’.is there my Fortune I must learn,_
_And all that_ Damon _does concern._