The NECK of IRIS.
All your Modesty, all your nice Care, cannot hide the ravishing Beauties of your Neck; we must see it, coy as you are; and see it the whitest, and finest shaped, that ever was form'd. Oh! why will you cover it? You know all handsome Things would be seen. And Oh! how often have you made your Lovers envy your Scarf, or any thing that hides so fine an Object from their Sight. Damon himself complains of your too nice Severity. Pray do not hide it so carefully. See how perfectly turn'd it is! with small blue Veins, wand'ring and ranging here and there, like little Rivulets, that wanton o'er the flowery Meads! See how the round white rising Breasts heave with every Breath, as if they disdain'd to be confin'd to a Covering; and repel the malicious Cloud that would obscure their Brightness!
Fain I would have leave to tell
The Charms that on your Bosom dwell;
Describe it like some flow'ry Field,
That does ten thousand Pleasures yield;
A thousand gliding Springs and Groves;
All Receptacles for Loves:
But Oh! what Iris hides, must be
Ever sacred kept by me.
The ARMS and HANDS of IRIS.
I shall not be put to much trouble to shew you your Hands and Arms, because you may view them without my Help; and you are very unjust, if you have not admir'd 'em a thousand times. The beautiful Colour and Proportion of your Arm is unimitable, and your Hand is dazzling, fine, small, and plump; long-pointed Fingers delicately turned; dimpled on the snowy out-side, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft Palm. Oh Iris! nothing equals your fair Hand; that Hand, of which Love so often makes such use to draw his Bow, when he would send the Arrow home with more Success; and which irresistibly wounds those, who possibly have not yet seen your Eyes: And when you have been veil'd, that lovely Hand has gain'd you a thousand Adorers. And I have heard Damon say, Without the Aid of more Beauties, that alone had been sufficient to have made an absolute Conquest, o'er his Soul. And he has often vow'd, It never toucht him but it made his Blood run with little irregular Motions in his Veins, his Breath beat short and double, his Blushes rise, and his very Soul dance.
Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize
'Bove any one peculiar Grace,
While he is dying for the Eyes
And doating on the lovely Face!
The Unconsid'ring little knows,
How much he to this Beauty owes.
That, when the Lover absent is,
Informs him of his Mistress' Heart;
'Tis that which gives him all his Bliss,
When dear Love-Secrets 'twill impart,
That plights the Faith the Maid bestows;
And that confirms the tim'rous Vows.
'Tis that betrays the Tenderness,
Which the too bashful Tongue denies:
'Tis that which does the Heart confess,
And spares the Language of the Eyes.
'Tis that which Treasure gives so vast;
Ev'n Iris 'twill to Damon give at last.