'Tis I alone, O charming Maid! that can shew you that noble part of your Beauty: That generous Air that adorns all your lovely Person, and renders every Motion and Action perfectly adorable. With what a Grace you walk!—How free, how easy, and how unaffected! See how you move!—for only here you can see it. Damon has told you a thousand times, that never any Mortal had so glorious an Air: but he cou'd not half describe it, nor would you credit even what he said; but with a careless Smile pass it off for the Flattery of a Lover. But here behold, and be convinc'd, and know, no part of your Beauty can charm more than this. O Iris! confess, Love has adorn'd you with all his Art and Care. Your Beauties are the Themes of all the Muses; who tell you in daily Songs, that the Graces themselves have not more than Iris. And one may truly say, that you alone know how to join the Ornaments and Dress with Beauty; and you are still adorn'd, as if that Shape and Air had a peculiar Art to make all Things appear gay and fine. Oh! how well drest you are! How every Thing becomes you! Never singular, never gawdy; but always suiting with your Quality.
Oh! how that Negligence becomes your Air!
That careless Flowing of your Hair,
That plays about with wanton Grace,
With every Motion of your Face:
Disdaining all that dull Formality,
That dares not move the Lip, or Eye,
But at some fancy'd Grace's cost;
And think, with it, at least, a Lover lost.
But the unlucky Minute to reclaim, }
And ease the Coquet of her Pain, }
The Pocket-Glass adjusts the Face again: }
Re-sets the Mouth, and languishes the Eyes;
And thinks, the Spark that ogles that way—dies.
Of Iris learn, Oh ye mistaken Fair!
To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air:
Let easy Nature all the Bus'ness do,
She can the softest Graces shew;
Which Art but turns to ridicule,
And where there's none serves but to shew the Fool.
In Iris you all Graces find;
Charms without Art, a Motion unconfin'd;
Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks;
And without Affectation, moves and walks.
Beauties so perfect ne'er were seen:
O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by Iris' Mein.
The DISCRETION of IRIS.
But, O Iris! the Beauties of the Body are imperfect, if the Beauties of the Soul do not advance themselves to an equal Height. But, O Iris! what Mortal is there so damn'd to Malice, that does not, with Adoration, confess, that you, O charming Maid, have an equal Portion of all the Braveries and Virtues of the Mind? And who is it, that confesses your Beauty, that does not at the same time acknowledge and bow to your Wisdom? The whole World admires both in you; and all with impatience ask, Which of the two is most surprizing, your Beauty, or your Discretion? But we dispute in vain on that excellent Subject; for after all, 'tis determin'd, that the two Charms are equal. 'Tis none of those idle Discretions that consists in Words alone, and ever takes the Shadow of Reason for the Substance; and that makes use of all the little Artifices of Subtlety, and florid Talking, to make the Out-side of the Argument appear fine, and leave the Inside wholly misunderstood; who runs away with Words, and never thinks of Sense. But you, O lovely Maid! never make use of these affected Arts; but without being too brisk or too severe, too silent or too talkative, you inspire in all your Hearers a Joy, and a Respect. Your Soul is an Enemy to that usual Vice of your Sex, of using little Arguments against the Fair; or, by a Word or Jest, making your self and Hearers pleasant at the expence of the Fame of others.
Your Heart is an Enemy to all Passions, but that of Love. And this is one of your noble Maxims, That every one ought to love, in some part of his Life; and that in a Heart truly brave, Love is without Folly: That Wisdom is a Friend to Love, and Love to perfect Wisdom. Since these Maxims are your own, do not, O charming Iris! resist that noble Passion: and since Damon is the most tender of Lovers, answer his Passion with a noble Ardour. Your Prudence never fails in the Choice of your Friends; and in chusing so well your Lover, you will stand an eternal Precedent to all unreasonable Fair Ones.
O thou that dost excel in Wit and Youth!
Be still a Precedent for Love and Truth.
Let the dull World say what it will,
A noble Flame's unblameable.
Where a fine Sent'ment and soft Passion rules,
They scorn the Censure of the Fools.
Yield, Iris, then; Oh, yield to Love!
Redeem your dying Slave from Pain;
The World your Conduct must approve:
Your Prudence never acts in vain.