THREE o'CLOCK.
Capricious Suffering in Dreams.
It is but just to mix a little Chagrin with these Pleasures, a little Bitter with your Sweet; you may be cloy'd with too long an Imagination of my Favours: and I will have your Fancy in Dreams represent me to it, as the most capricious Maid in the World. I know, here you will accuse my Watch, and blame me with unnecessary Cruelty, as you will call it: but Lovers have their little Ends, their little Advantages, to pursue by Methods wholly unaccountable to all, but that Heart which contrives 'em: And, as good a Lover as I believe you, you will not enter into my Design at first sight; and tho', on reasonable Thoughts, you will be satisfied with this Conduct of mine, at its first Approach you will be ready to cry out—
The Request.
Oh Iris! let my sleeping Hours be fraught
With Joys, which you deny my waking Thought.
Is't not enough you absent are?
Is't not enough I sigh all day,
And lanquish out my Life in Care,
To e'ery Passion made a Prey?
I burn with Love, and soft Desire;
I rave with Jealousy and Fear:
All Day, for Ease, my Soul I tire;
In vain I search it ev'ry where:
It dwells not with the Witty or the Fair.
It is not in the Camp or Court,
In Business, Musick, or in Sport;
The Plays, the Park, and Mall afford
No more than the dull Basset-board.
The Beauties in the Drawing-room,
With all their Sweetness, all their Bloom,
No more my faithful Eyes invite,
Nor rob my Iris of a Sigh or Glance,
Unless soft Thoughts of her incite
A Smile, or trivial Complaisance.
Then since my Days so anxious prove,
Ah, cruel Tyrant! give
A little Loose to Joys in Love,
And let your Damon live.
Let him in Dreams be happy made,
And let his Sleep some Bliss provide:
The nicest Maid may yield in Night's dark shade,
What she so long by Day-light had deny'd.
There let me think you present are,
And court my Pillow for my Fair.
There let me find you kind, and that you give
All that a Man of Honour dares receive.
And may my Eyes eternal Watches keep,
Rather than want that Pleasure when I sleep.
Some such Complaint as this I know you will make; but, Damon, if the little Quarrels of Lovers render the reconciling Moments so infinitely charming, you must needs allow, that these little Chagrin in capricious Dreams must awaken you to more Joy to find 'em but Dreams, than if you had met with no Disorder there. 'Tis for this reason that I would have you suffer a little Pain for a coming Pleasure; nor, indeed is it possible for you to escape the Dreams my Cupid points you out. You shall dream that I have a thousand Foibles, something of the lightness of my Sex; that my Soul is employ'd in a thousand Vanities; that (proud and fond of Lovers) I make advances for the Glory of a Slave, without any other Interest or Design than that of being ador'd. I will give you leave to think my Heart fickle, and that, far from resigning it to any one, I lend it only for a Day, or an Hour, and take it back at pleasure; that I am a very Coquet, even to Impertinence.
All this I give you leave to think, and to offend me: but 'tis in sleep only that I permit it; for I would never pardon you the least Offence of this nature, if in any other Kind than in a Dream. Nor is it enough Affliction to you, to imagine me thus idly vain; but you are to pass on to a hundred more capricious Humours: as that I exact of you a hundred unjust Things; that I pretend you should break off with all your Friends, and for the future have none at all; that I will myself do those Things, which I violently condemn in you; and that I will have for others, as well as you, that tender Friendship that resembles Love, or rather that Love which People call Friendship; and that I will not, after all, have you dare complain on me.
In fine, be as ingenious as you please to torment your self; and believe, that I am become unjust, ungrateful, and insensible: But were I so indeed, O Damon! consider your awaking Heart, and tell me, would your Love stand the proof of all these Faults in me? But know, that I would have you believe I have none of these Weaknesses, tho' I am not wholly without Faults, but those will be excusable to a Lover; and this Notion I have of a perfect one:
Whate'er fantastick Humours rule the Fair,
She's still the Lover's Dotage, and his Care.