ONE o'CLOCK.
Forc'd Entertainment.
I Perceive it will be very difficult for you to quit the Temple, without being surrounded with Compliments from People of Ceremony, Friends, and Newsmongers, and several of those sorts of Persons, who afflict and busy themselves, and rejoice at a hundred things they have no Interest in; Coquets and Politicians, who make it the Business of their whole Lives, to gather all the News of the Town; adding or diminishing according to the Stock of their Wit and Invention, and spreading it all abroad to the believing Fools and Gossips; and perplexing every body with a hundred ridiculous Novels, which they pass off for Wit and Entertainment; or else some of those Recounters of Adventures, that are always telling of Intrigues, and that make a Secret to a hundred People of a thousand foolish things they have heard: Like a certain pert and impertinent Lady of the Town, whose Youth and Beauty being past, sets up for Wit, to uphold a feeble Empire over idle Hearts; and whose Character is this:
The Coquet.
Melinda, who had never been
Esteem'd a Beauty at fifteen,
Always amorous was, and kind:
To every Swain she lent an Ear;
Free as Air, but false as Wind;
Yet none complain'd, she was severe.
She eas'd more than she made complain;
Was always singing, pert, and vain.
Where-e'er the Throng was, she was seen,
And swept the Youths along the Green;
With equal Grace she flatter'd all;
And fondly proud of all Address,
Her Smiles invite, her Eyes do call,
And her vain Heart her Looks confess.
She rallies this, to that she bow'd,
Was talking ever, laughing loud.
On every side she makes advance,
And every where a Confidence;
She tells for Secrets all she knows,
And all to know she does pretend:
Beauty in Maids she treats as Foes:
But every handsome Youth as Friend.
Scandal still passes off for Truth;
And Noise and Nonsense, Wit and Youth.
Coquet all o'er, and every part,
Yet wanting Beauty, even of Art;
Herds with the ugly, and the old;
And plays the Critick on the rest:
Of Men, the bashful, and the bold,
Either, and all, by turns, likes best:
Even now, tho' Youth be langisht, she
Sets up for Love and Gallantry.
This sort of Creature, Damon, is very dangerous; not that I fear you will squander away a Heart upon her, but your Hours; for in spight of you, she'll detain you with a thousand Impertinencies, and eternal Tattle. She passes for a judging Wit; and there is nothing so troublesome as such a Pretender. She, perhaps, may get some knowledge of our Correspondence; and then, no doubt, will improve it to my Disadvantage. Possibly she may rail at me; that is her fashion by the way of friendly Speaking; and an aukward Commendation, the most effectual way of Defaming and Traducing. Perhaps she tells you, in a cold Tone, that you are a happy Man to be belov'd by me: That Iris indeed is handsome, and she wonders she has no more Lovers; but the Men are not of her mind; if they were, you should have more Rivals. She commends my Face, but that I have blue Eyes, and 'tis pity my Complexion is no better: My Shape but too much inclining to fat. Cries—She would charm infinitely with her Wit, but that she knows too well she is Mistress of it. And concludes,—But all together she is well enough.—Thus she runs on without giving you leave to edge in a word in my defence; and ever and anon crying up her own Conduct and Management: Tells you how she is opprest with Lovers, and fatigu'd with Addresses; and recommending her self, at every turn, with a perceivable Cunning: And all the while is jilting you of your good Opinion; which she would buy at the price of any body's Repose, or her own Fame, tho' but for the Vanity of adding to the number of her Lovers. When she sees a new Spark, the first thing she does, she enquires into his Estate; if she find it such as may (if the Coxcomb be well manag'd) supply her Vanity, she makes advances to him, and applies her self to those little Arts she usually makes use of to gain her Fools; and according to his Humour dresses and affects her own. But, Damon, since I point to no particular Person in this Character, I will not name who you shall avoid; but all of this sort I conjure you, wheresoever you find 'em. But if unlucky Chance throw you in their way, hear all they say, without credit or regard, as far as Decency will suffer you; hear 'em without approving their Foppery; and hear 'em without giving 'em cause to censure you. But 'tis so much Time lost to listen to all the Novels this sort of People will perplex you with; whose Business is to be idle, and who even tire themselves with their own Impertinencies. And be assur'd after all there is nothing they can tell you that is worth your knowing. And Damon, a perfect Lover never asks any News but of the Maid he loves.
The Enquiry.
Damon, if your Love be true
To the Heart that you possess,
Tell me what have you to do
Where you have no Tenderness?
Her Affairs who cares to learn,
For whom he has not some Concern?
If a Lover fain would know
If the Object lov'd be true,
Let her but industrious be
To watch his Curiosity;
Tho' ne'er so cold his Questions seem,
They come from warmer Thoughts within.
When I hear a Swain enquire
What gay Melinda does to live,
I conclude there is some Fire
In a Heart inquisitive;
Or 'tis, at least, the Bill that's set
To shew, The Heart is to be let.