If my Watch did not inform you 'tis now time to write, I believe, Damon, your Heart wou'd, and tell you also that I should take it kindly, if you would employ a whole Hour that way; and that you should never lose an Occasion of writing to me, since you are assured of the Welcome I give your Letters. Perhaps you will say, an Hour is too much, and that 'tis not the mode to write long Letters. I grant you, Damon, when we write those indifferent ones of Gallantry in course, or necessary Compliment; the handsome comprizing of which in the fewest Words, renders 'em the most agreeable: But in Love we have a thousand foolish things to say, that of themselves bear no great Sound, but have a mighty Sense in Love; for there is a peculiar Eloquence natural alone to a Lover, and to be understood by no other Creature: To those, Words have a thousand Graces and Sweetnesses; which, to the Unconcerned, appear Meanness, and easy Sense, at the best. But, Damon, you and I are none of those ill Judges of the Beauties of Love; we can penetrate beyond the Vulgar, and perceive the fine Soul in every Line, thro' all the humble Dress of Phrase; when possibly they who think they discern it best in florid Language, do not see it at all. Love was not born or bred in Courts, but Cottages; and, nurs'd in Groves and Shades, smiles on the Plains, and wantons in the Streams; all unador'd and harmless. Therefore, Damon, do not consult your Wit in this Affair, but Love alone; speak all that he and Nature taught you, and let the fine Things you learn in Schools alone: Make use of those Flowers you have gather'd there, when you converst with States-men and the Gown. Let Iris possess your Heart in all its simple Innocence, that's the best Eloquence to her that loves: and that is my Instruction to a Lover that would succeed in his Amours; for I have a Heart very difficult to please, and this is the nearest way to it.
Advice to Lovers.
Lovers, if you wou'd gain a Heart,
Of Damon learn to win the Prize;
He'll shew you all its tend'rest part,
And where its greatest Danger lies;
The Magazine of its Disdain,
Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain.
If present, do but little say;
Enough the silent Lover speaks:
But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day;
Such Rhet'rick more than Language takes.
For Words the dullest way do move;
And utter'd more to shew your Wit than Love.
Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart;
Its Story is, for Words, too delicate.
Souls thus exchange, and thus impart,
And all their Secrets can relate.
A Tear, a broken Sigh, she'll understand;
Or the soft trembling Pressings of the Hand.
Or if your Pain must be in Words exprest,
Let 'em fall gently, unassur'd and slow;
And where they fail, your Looks may tell the rest:
Thus Damon spoke, and I was conquer'd so.
The witty Talker has mistook his Art;
The modest Lover only charms the Heart.
Thus, while all day you gazing sit,
And fear to speak, and fear your Fate,
You more Advantages by Silence get,
Than the gay forward Youth with all his Prate.
Let him be silent here; but when away,
Whatever Love can dictate, let him say.
There let the bashful Soul unveil,
And give a loose to Love and Truth:
Let him improve the amorous Tale,
With all the Force of Words, and Fire of Youth:
There all, and any thing let him express;
Too long he cannot write, too much confess.
O Damon! How well have you made me understand this soft Pleasure! You know my Tenderness too well, not to be sensible how I am charmed with your agreeable long Letters.
The Invention.