Tho' Damon every Virtue have,
With all that pleases in his Form,
That can adorn the Just and Brave,
That can the coldest Bosom warm;
Tho' Wit and Honour there abound,
Yet the Pursuer's ne'er pursu'd,
And when my Weakness he has found,
His Love will sink to Gratitude:
While on the asking part he lives,
'Tis she th' Obliger is who gives.
And he that at one Throw the Stake has won
Gives over play, since all the Stock is gone.
And what dull Gamester ventures certain Store
With Losers who can set no more?
NINE o'CLOCK.
Design to please no body.
I should continue to accuse you of that Vice I have often done, that of Laziness, if you remain'd past this Hour in bed: 'tis time for you to rise; my Watch tells you 'tis nine o'clock. Remember that I am absent, therefore do not take too much pains in dressing your self, and setting your Person off.
The Question.
Tell me! What can he design,
Who in his Mistress' absence will be fine?
Why does he cock, and comb, and dress?
Why is his Cravat String in Print?
What does th' Embroider'd Coat confess?
Why to the Glass this long Address,
If there be nothing in't?
If no new Conquest is design'd,
If no new Beauty fill his Mind?
Let Fools and Fops, whose Talents lie
In being neat, in being spruce,
Be drest in Vain, and Tawdery;
With Men of Sense, 'tis out of use:
The only Folly that Distinction sets
Between the noisy fluttering Fools and Wits.
Remember, Iris is away;
And sighing to your Valet cry,
Spare your Perfumes and Care, to-day
I have no business to be gay,
Since Iris is not by.
I'll be all negligent in Dress,
And scarce set off for Complaisance;
Put me on nothing that may please,
But only such as may give no Offence.
Say to your self, as you are dressing, 'Would it please Heaven, that I might see Iris to-day! But oh! 'tis impossible: Therefore all that I shall see will be but indifferent Objects, since 'tis Iris only that I wish to see.' And sighing, whisper to your self:
The Sigh.
Ah! charming Object of my wishing Thought!
Ah! soft Idea of a distant Bliss!
That only art in Dreams and Fancy brought,
To give short Intervals of Happiness.
But when I waking find thou absent art,
And with thee, all that I adore,
What Pains, what Anguish fills my Heart!
What Sadness seizes me all o'er!
All Entertainments I neglect,
Since Iris is no longer there:
Beauty scarce claims my bare Respect,
Since in the Throng I find not her.
Ah then! how vain it were to dress, and show;
Since all I wish to please, is absent now!