But, Damon, I know all Lovers are naturally Flatterers, tho' they do not think so themselves; because every one makes a Sense of Beauty according to his own Fancy. But perhaps you will say in your own defence, That 'tis not Flattery to say an unbeautiful Woman is beautiful, if he that says so believes she is so. I should be content to acquit you of the first, provided you allow me the last: And if I appear charming in Damon's eyes, I am not fond of the Approbation of any other. 'Tis enough the World thinks me not altogether disagreeable, to justify his Choice; but let your good Opinion give what Increase it pleases to my Beauty, tho' your Approbation give me a Pleasure, it shall not a Vanity; and I am contented that Damon should think me a Beauty, without my believing I am one. 'Tis not to draw new Assurances, and new Vows from you, that I speak this; though Tales of Love are the only ones we desire to hear often told, and which never tire the Hearers if addrest to themselves. But 'tis not to this end I now seem to doubt what you say to my advantage: No, my Heart knows no Disguise, nor can dissemble one Thought of it to Damon; 'tis all sincere, and honest as his Wish: 'Tis therefore it tells you, it does not credit every thing you say; tho' I believe you say abundance of Truths in a great part of my Character. But when you advance to that, which my own Sense, my Judgment, or my Glass cannot persuade me to believe, you must give me leave either to believe you think me vain enough to credit you, or pleas'd that your Sentiments and mine are differing in this point. But I doubt I may rather reply in some Verses, a Friend of yours and mine sent to a Person she thought had but indifferent Sentiments for her; yet, who nevertheless flatter'd her, because he imagin'd she had a very great Esteem for him. She is a Woman that, you know, naturally hates Flattery: On the other side she was extremely dissatisfy'd, and uneasy at his Opinion of his being more in her favour than she desir'd he should believe. So that one Night having left her full of Pride and Anger, she next Morning sent him these Verses, instead of a Billetdoux.
The Defiance.
By Heaven 'tis false, I am not vain;
And rather would the Subject be
Of your Indifference, or Disdain,
Than Wit or Raillery.
Take back the trifling Praise you give,
And pass it on some easier Fool,
Who may the injuring Wit believe,
That turns her into ridicule.
Tell her, she's witty, fair and gay,
With all the Charms that can subdue:
Perhaps she'll credit what you say;
But curse me if I do.
If your Diversion you design,
On my Good-nature you have prest:
Or if you do intend it mine,
You have mistook the Jest.
Philander, fly that guilty Art:
Your charming facile Wit will find,
It cannot play on any Heart,
That is sincere and kind.
For Wit with Softness to reside,
Good-nature is with Pity stor'd;
But Flattery's the result of Pride,
And fawns to be ador'd.
Nay, even when you smile and bow,
'Tis to be render'd more compleat:
Your Wit, with ev'ry Grace you shew,
Is but a popular Cheat.
Laugh on, and call me Coxcomb—do;
And, your Opinion to improve,
Think, all you think of me is true;
And to confirm it, swear I love.
Then, while you wreck my Soul with Pain,
And of a cruel Conquest boast,
'Tis you, Philander, that are vain,
And witty at my cost.