TEN o'CLOCK.
Reading of Letters.
My Cupid points you now to the Hour in which you ought to retire into your Cabinet, having already past an Hour in Dressing: and for a Lover, who is sure not to appear before his Mistress, even that Hour is too much to be so employ'd. But I will think, you thought of nothing less than Dressing while you were about it. Lose then no more Minutes, but open your Scrutore, and read over some of those Billets you have received from me. Oh! what Pleasures a Lover feels about his Heart, in reading those from a Mistress he entirely loves!
The Joy.
Who, but a Lover, can express
The Joys, the Pants, the Tenderness,
That the soft amorous Soul invades,
While the dear Billetdoux he reads:
Raptures Divine the Heart o'erflow,
Which he that loves not cannot know.
A thousand Tremblings, thousand Fears,
The short-breath'd Sighs, the joyful Tears!
The Transport, where the Love's confest;
The Change, where Coldness is exprest;
The diff'ring Flames the Lover burns,
As those are shy, or kind, by turns.
However you find'em, Damon, construe 'em all to my advantage: Possibly, some of them have an Air of Coldness, something different from that Softness they are usually too amply fill'd with; but where you find they have, believe there, that the Sense of Honour, and my Sex's Modesty, guided my Hand a little against the Inclinations of my Heart; and that it was as a kind of an Atonement, I believed I ought to make, for something I feared I had said too kind, and too obliging before. But where-ever you find that Stop, that Check in my Career of Love, you will be sure to find something that follows it to favour you, and deny that unwilling Imposition upon my Heart; which, lest you should mistake, Love shews himself in Smiles again, and flatters more agreeably, disdaining the Tyranny of Honour and rigid Custom, that Imposition on our Sex; and will, in spite of me, let you see he reigns absolutely in my Soul.
The reading my Billetdoux may detain you an Hour: I have had so much Goodness to write you enow to entertain you for so long at least, and sometimes reproach my self for it; but, contrary to all my Scruples, I find my self disposed to give you those frequent Marks of my Tenderness. If yours be so great as you express it, you ought to kiss my Letters a thousand times; you ought to read them with Attention, and weigh every Word, and value every Line. A Lover may receive a thousand endearing Words from a Mistress, more easily than a Billet. One says a great many kind things of course to a Lover, which one is not willing to write, or to give testify'd under one's Hand, signed and sealed. But when once a Lover has brought his Mistress to that degree of Love, he ought to assure himself, she loves not at the common rate.
Love's Witness.
Slight unpremeditated Words are borne
By every common Wind into the Air;
Carelessly utter'd, die as soon as born,
And in one instant give both Hope and Fear:
Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind,
According to the Caprice of the Mind.
But Billetdoux are constant Witnesses,
Substantial Records to Eternity;
Just Evidences, who the Truth confess,
On which the Lover safely may rely;
They're serious Thoughts, digested and resolv'd;
And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv'd.
I will not doubt, but you give credit to all that is kind in my Letters; and I will believe, you find a Satisfaction in the Entertainment they give you, and that the Hour of reading 'em is not disagreeable to you. I could wish, your Pleasure might be extreme, even to the degree of suffering the Thought of my Absence not to diminish any part of it. And I could wish too, at the end of your Reading, you would sigh with Pleasure, and say to your self—
The Transport.
O Iris! While you thus can charm,
While at this Distance you can wound and warm;
My absent Torments I will bless and bear,
That give me such dear Proofs how kind you are.
Present, the valu'd Store was only seen,
Now I am rifling the bright Mass within.
Every dear, past, and happy Day,
When languishing at Iris' Feet I lay;
When all my Prayers and all my Tears could move
No more than her Permission, I should love:
Vain with my Glorious Destiny,
I thought, beyond, scarce any Heaven cou'd be.
But, charming Maid, now I am taught,
That Absence has a thousand Joys to give,
On which the Lover present never thought,
That recompense the Hours we grieve.
Rather by Absence let me be undone,
Than forfeit all the Pleasures that has won.
With this little Rapture, I wish you wou'd finish the reading my Letters, shut your Scrutore, and quit your Cabinet; for my Love leads to eleven o'clock.