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.
ELEVEN o'CLOCK.
The Hour to write in.