TWELVE o'CLOCK.
Complaisance.
Nevertheless, Damon, Civility requires a little Complaisance after Supper; and I am assur'd, you can never want that, tho' I confess, you are not accus'd of too general a Complaisance, and do not often make use of it to those Persons you have an Indifference for: tho' one is not the less esteemable for having more of this than one ought: and tho' an excess of it be a Fault, 'tis a very excusable one. Have therefore some for those with whom you are: You may laugh with 'em, drink with 'em, dance or sing with 'em; yet think of me. You may discourse of a thousand indifferent things with 'em; and at the same time still think of me. If the Subject be any beautiful Lady, whom they praise, either for her Person, Wit, or Virtue, you may apply it to me: And if you dare not say it aloud, at least, let your Heart answer in this language:
Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise,
Can give us Love a thousand ways;
Her Wit and Beauty charming are;
But still my Iris is more fair.
No body ever spoke before me of a faithful Lover, but still I sigh'd, and thought of Damon: And ever when they tell me Tales of Love, any soft pleasing Intercourses of an Amour; Oh! with what Pleasures do I listen! and with Pleasure answer 'em, either with my Eyes, or Tongue—
That Lover may his Sylvia warm,
But cannot, like my Damon, charm.
If I have not all those excellent Qualities you meet with in those beautiful People, I am however very glad that Love prepossesses your Heart to my advantage: And I need not tell you, Damon, that a true Lover ought to persuade himself, that all other Objects ought to give place to her, for whom his Heart sighs—But see, my Cupid tells you 'tis One o'Clock, and that you ought not to be longer from your Apartment; where, while you are undressing, I will give you leave to say to your self—
The Regret.
Alas! and must the Sun decline,
Before it have inform'd my Eyes
Of all that's glorious, all that's fine,
Of all I sigh for, all I prize?
How joyful were those happy Days,
When Iris spread her charming Rays,
Did my unwearied Heart inspire
With never-ceasing awful Fire,
And e'ery Minute gave me new Desire!
But now, alas! all dead and pale,
Like Flow'rs that wither in the Shade:
Where no kind Sun-beams can prevail,
To raise its cold and fading Head,
I sink into my useless Bed.
I grasp the senseless Pillow as I lie;
A thousand times, in vain, I sighing cry,
Ah! wou'd to Heaven my Iris were as nigh.