And then two Flowers newly born.
Shine in your Heav'nly Face;
The Rose that blushes in the Morn,
Usurps the Lilly's place:
Sometimes the Lilly does prevail.
And makes the gen'rous Crimson pale.
IRIS's HAIR.
Oh, the beautiful Hair of Iris! it seems as if Nature had crown'd you with a great quantity of lovely fair brown Hair, to make us know that you were born to rule, and to repair the Faults of Fortune that has not given you a Diadem: And do not bewail the Want of that (so much your Merit's due) since Heaven has so gloriously recompensed you with what gains more admiring Slaves.
Heav'n for Sovereignty has made your Form:
And you were more than for dull Empire born;
O'er Hearts your Kingdom shall extend,
Your vast Dominion know no End.
Thither the Loves and Graces shall resort;
To Iris make their Homage, and their Court.
No envious Star, no common Fate, }
Did on my Iris' Birth-day wait; }
But all was happy, all was delicate. }
Here Fortune would inconstant be in vain:
Iris, and Love eternally shall reign.
Love does not make less use of your Hair for new Conquests, than of all the rest of your Beauties that adorn you. If he takes our Hearts with your fine Eyes, it ties 'em fast with your Hair; and of it weaves a Chain, not easily broken. It is not of those sorts of Hair, whose Harshness discovers Ill-Nature; nor of those, whose Softness shews us the Weakness of the Mind; not that either of these Arguments are without exception: but 'tis such as bears the Character of a perfect Mind, and a delicate Wit; and for its Colour, the most faithful, discreet, and beautiful in the World: such as shews a Complexion and Constitution, neither so cold to be insensible, nor so hot to have too much Fire: that is, neither too white, nor too black; but such a mixture of the two Colours, as makes it the most agreeable in the World.
'Tis that which leads those captivated Hearts,
That bleeding at your Feet do lie;
'Tis that the Obstinate converts,
That dare the Power of Love deny:
'Tis that which Damon so admires;
Damon, who often tells you so.
If from your Eyes Love takes his Fires,
'Tis with your Hair he strings his Bow:
Which touching but the feather'd Dart,
It never mist the destin'd Heart.
IRIS's EYES.
I believe, my fair Mistress, I shall dazzle you with the Lustre of your own Eyes. They are the finest Blue in World: They have all the Sweetness that ever charm'd the Heart, with a certain Languishment that's irresistible; and never any look'd on 'em, that did not sigh after 'em. Believe me, Iris, they carry unavoidable Darts and Fires; and whoever expose themselves to their Dangers, pay for their Imprudence.
Cold as my solid Chrystal is,
Hard and impenetrable too;
Yet I am sensible of Bliss,
When your charming Eyes I view:
Even by me their Flames are felt;
And at each Glance I fear to melt.
Ah, how pleasant are my Days!
How my glorious Fate I bless!
Mortals never knew my Joys,
Nor Monarchs guest my Happiness.
Every Look that's soft and gay,
Iris gives me every Day.