I tell you that I love a Maid,
As bright as Heav'n, of Angel-hue;
The softest Nature ever made,
Whom I with Sighs and Vows pursue.
Oh, tell me, charming Prophetess!
Shall I this lovely Maid possess?
A thousand Rivals do obstruct my Way;
A thousand Fears they do create:
They throng about her all the Day,
Whilst I at awful Distance wait.
Say, Will the lovely Maid so fickle prove,
To give my Rivals Hope, as well as Love?
She has a thousand Charms of Wit,
With all the Beauty Heav'n e'er gave:
Oh! let her not make use of it,
To flatter me into the Slave.
Oh! tell me Truth, to ease my Pain;
Say rather, I shall die by her Disdain.
The MODESTY of IRIS.
I perceive, fair Iris, you have a mind to tell me, I have entertain'd you too long with a Discourse on your self. I know your Modesty makes this Declaration an Offence, and you suffer me, with Pain, to unveil those Treasures you would hide. Your Modesty, that so commendable a Virtue in the Fair, and so peculiar to you, is here a little too severe. Did I flatter you, you should blush: Did I seek, by praising you, to shew an Art of speaking finely, you might chide. But, O Iris, I say nothing but such plain Truths, as all the World can witness are so: And so far I am from Flattery, that I seek no Ornament of Words. Why do you take such Care to conceal your Virtues? They have too much Lustre, not to be seen, in spight of all your Modesty: Your Wit, your Youth, and Reason, oppose themselves against this dull Obstructer of our Happiness. Abate, O Iris, a little of this Virtue, since you have so many others to defend your self against the Attacks of your Adorers. You your self have the least Opinion of your own Charms: and being the only Person in the World, that is not in love with 'em, you hate to pass whole Hours before your Looking-Glass; and to pass your Time, like most of the idle Fair, in dressing, and setting off those Beauties, which need so little Art. You more wise, disdain to give those Hours to the Fatigue of Dressing, which you know so well how to employ a thousand ways. The Muses have blest you, above your Sex; and you know how to gain a Conquest with your Pen, more absolutely than all the industrious Fair, who trust to Dress and Equipage.
I have a thousand Things to tell you more, but willingly resign my Place to Damon, that faithful Lover; he will speak more ardently than I: For let a Glass use all its Force, yet, when it speaks its best, it speaks but coldly.
If my Glass, O charming Iris, have the good Fortune (which I could never entirely boast) to be believ'd, 'twill serve at least to convince you I have not been so guilty of Flattery, as I have a thousand Times been charg'd. Since then my Passion is equal to your Beauty (without Comparison, or End) believe, O lovely Maid! how I sigh in your Absence; and be persuaded to lessen my Pain, and restore me to my Joys: for there is no Torment so great, as the Absence of a Lover from his Mistress; of which this is the Idea.
The Effects of Absence from what we love.
Thou one continu'd Sigh! all over Pain!
Eternal Wish! but Wish, alas, in vain!
Thou languishing, impatient Hoper on;
A busy Toiler, and yet still undone!
A breaking Glimpse of distant Day,
Inticing on, and leading more astray!
Thou Joy in Prospect, future Bliss extreme;
Never to be possess'd, but in a Dream!
Thou fab'lous Goddess, which the ravisht Boy
In happy Slumbers proudly did enjoy;
But waking, found an airy Cloud he prest;
His Arms came empty to his panting Breast.
Thou Shade, that only haunt'st the Soul by night;
And when thou shouldst inform thou fly'st the Sight:
Thou false Idea of the thinking Brain, }
That labours for the charming Form in vain: }
Which if by chance it catch, thou'rt lost again. }