ELEVEN o'CLOCK.
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.