So certain it is, that Love without Faith, is of no value.
In fine, my adorable Iris, this Case shall be, as near as I can, like those delicate ones of Filligrin Work, which do not hinder the Sight from taking a View of all within: You may therefore see, thro' this Heart, all your Watch. Nor is my Desire of preserving this inestimable Piece more, than to make it the whole Rule of my Life and Actions. And my chiefest Design in these Cyphers, is to comprehend in them the principal Virtues that are most necessary to Love. Do not we know that Reciprocal Love is Justice? Constant Love, Fortitude? Secret Love, Prudence? Tho' 'tis true that extreme Love, that is, Excess of Love, in one sense, appears not to be Temperance; yet you must know, my Iris, that in Matters of Love, Excess is a Virtue, and that all other Degrees of Love are worthy Scorn alone. 'Tis this alone that can make good the glorious Title: 'Tis this alone that can bear the Name of Love; and this alone that renders the Lovers truly happy, in spight of all the Storms of Fate, and Shocks of Fortune. This is an Antidote against all other Griefs: This bears up the Soul in all Calamity; and is the very Heaven of Life, the last Refuge of all worldly Pain and Care, and may well bear the Title of Divine.
The Art of Loving well.
That Love may all Perfection be,
Sweet, charming to the last degree,
The Heart, where the bright Flame does dwell,
In Faith and Softness should excel:
Excess of Love should fill each Vein,
And all its sacred Rites maintain.
The tend'rest Thoughts Heav'n can inspire,
Should be the Fuel to its Fire:
And that, like Incense, burn as pure;
Or that in Urns should still endure,
No fond Desire should fill the Soul,
But such as Honour may controul.
Jealousy I will allow:
Not the amorous Winds that blow,
Should wanton in my Iris' Hair,
Or ravish Kisses from my Fair.
Not the Flowers that grow beneath,
Should borrow Sweetness of her Breath.
If her Bird she do caress,
How I grudge its Happiness,
When upon her snowy Hand
The Wanton does triumphing stand!
Or upon her Breast she skips,
And lays her Beak to Iris' Lips!
Fainting at my ravished Joy,
I could the Innocent destroy.
If I can no Bliss afford
To a little harmless Bird,
Tell me, Oh thou dear-lov'd Maid!
What Reason could my Rage persuade,
If a Rival should invade?
If thy charming Eyes should dart
Looks that sally from the Heart;
If you sent a Smile, or Glance,
To another tho' by Chance;
Still thou giv'st what's not thy own,
They belong to me alone.
All Submission I would pay:
Man was born the Fair t' obey.
Your very Look I'd understand,
And thence receive your least Command:
Never your Justice will dispute;
But like a Lover execute.
I would no Usurper be,
But in claiming sacred Thee.
I would have all, and every part;
No Thought would hide within thy Heart.
Mine a Cabinet was made,
Where Iris' Secrets should be laid.