Part 2

Every Hour is tedious to a Lover separated from his Mistress: and to shew you how good I am, I will have my _Watch_ instruct you, to pass some of them without Inquietude; that the force of your Imagination may sometimes charm the Trouble you have for my Absence:

_Perhaps I am mistaken here,_ _My Heart may too much Credit give:_ _But,_ Damon, _you can charm my Fear,_ _And soon my Error undeceive._

But I will not disturb my Repose at this time with a Jealousy, which I hope is altogether frivolous and vain; but begin to instruct you in the Mysteries of my _Watch_. Cast then your Eyes upon the eighth Hour in the Morning, which is the Hour I would have you begin to wake: you will find there written,

EIGHT o’.LOCK.

_Agreeable Reverie._

Do not rise yet; you may find Thoughts agreeable enough, when you awake, to entertain you longer in Bed. And ‘tis in that Hour you ought to recollect all the Dreams you had in the Night. If you had dream’d any thing to my advantage, confirm your self in that thought; but if to my disadvantage, renounce it, and disown the injurious Dream. ‘Tis in this Hour also that I give you leave to reflect on all that I have ever said and done, that has been most obliging to you, and that gives you the most tender Sentiments.

The Reflections.

_Remember,_ Damon, _while your Mind_ _Reflects on things that charm and please,_ _You give me Proofs that you are kind,_ _And set my doubting Soul at ease:_ _For when your Heart receives with Joy_ _The thoughts of Favours which I give,_ _My Smiles in vain I not employ,_ _And on the Square we love and live._ _Think then on all I ever did,_ _That e’er was charming, e’er was dear;_ _Let nothing from that Soul be hid,_ _Whose Griefs and Joys I feel and share._ _All that your Love and Faith have sought,_ } _All that your Vows and Sighs have bought,_ } _Now render present to your Thought._ }

And for what’s to come, I give you leave, _Damon_, to flatter your self, and to expect, I shall still pursue those Methods, whose Remembrance charms so well: But, if it be possible, conceive these kind Thoughts between sleeping and waking, that all my too forward Complaisance, my Goodness, and my Tenderness, which I confess to have for you, may pass for Half Dreams: for ‘tis most certain,

_That tho’ the Favours of the Fair_ _Are ever to the Lover dear;_ _Yet, lest he should reproach that easy Flame,_ _That buys its Satisfaction with its Shame;_ _She ought but rarely to confess_ _How much she finds of Tenderness;_ _Nicely to guard the yielding part,_ _And hide the hard-kept Secret in her Heart._

For, let me tell you, _Damon_, tho’ the Passion of a Woman of Honour be ever so innocent, and the Lover never so discreet and honest; her Heart feels I know not what of Reproach within, at the reflection of any Favours she has allow’d him. For my part, I never call to mind the least soft or kind Word I have spoken to _Damon_, without finding at the same instant my Face cover’d over with Blushes, and my Heart with sensible Pain. I sigh at the Remembrance of every Touch I have stolen from his Hand, and have upbraided my Soul, which confesses so much guilty Love, as that secret Desire of touching him made appear. I am angry at the Discovery, though I am pleas’d at the same time with the Satisfaction I take in doing so; and ever disorder’d at the Remembrance of such Arguments of too much Love. And these unquiet Sentiments alone are sufficient to persuade me, that our Sex cannot be reserv’d too much. And I have often, on these occasions, said to my self,

The Reserve.

_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,_ _’.is 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’.LOCK.

_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!_

’.is with these Thoughts, _Damon_, that your Mind ought to be employ’d, during your time of Dressing. And you are too knowing in Love, to be ignorant,

_That when a Lover ceases to be blest_ _With the dear Object he desires,_ _Ah! how indifferent are the rest!_ _How soon their Conversation tires!_ _Tho’ they a thousand Arts to please invent,_ _Their Charms are dull, their Wit impertinent._

TEN o’.LOCK.

_Reading of Letters._

My _Cupid_ points you now to the Hour in which you ought to retire into your Cabinet, having already past an Hour in Dressing: and for a Lover, who is sure not to appear before his Mistress, even that Hour is too much to be so employ’d. But I will think, you thought of nothing less than Dressing while you were about it. Lose then no more Minutes, but open your Scrutore, and read over some of those Billets you have received from me. Oh! what Pleasures a Lover feels about his Heart, in reading those from a Mistress he entirely loves!

The Joy.

_Who, but a Lover, can express_ _The Joys, the Pants, the Tenderness,_ _That the soft amorous Soul invades,_ _While the dear_ Billetdoux _he reads:_ _Raptures Divine the Heart o’erflow,_ _Which he that loves not cannot know._ _A thousand Tremblings, thousand Fears,_ _The short-breath’d Sighs, the joyful Tears!_ _The Transport, where the Love’s confest;_ _The Change, where Coldness is exprest;_ _The diff’ring Flames the Lover burns,_ _As those are shy, or kind, by turns._

However you find’em, _Damon_, construe ‘em all to my advantage: Possibly, some of them have an Air of Coldness, something different from that Softness they are usually too amply fill’d with; but where you find they have, believe there, that the Sense of Honour, and my Sex’s Modesty, guided my Hand a little against the Inclinations of my Heart; and that it was as a kind of an Atonement, I believed I ought to make, for something I feared I had said too kind, and too obliging before. But where-ever you find that Stop, that Check in my Career of Love, you will be sure to find something that follows it to favour you, and deny that unwilling Imposition upon my Heart; which, lest you should mistake, Love shews himself in Smiles again, and flatters more agreeably, disdaining the Tyranny of Honour and rigid Custom, that Imposition on our Sex; and will, in spite of me, let you see he reigns absolutely in my Soul.

The reading my _Billetdoux_ may detain you an Hour: I have had so much Goodness to write you enow to entertain you for so long at least, and sometimes reproach my self for it; but, contrary to all my Scruples, I find my self disposed to give you those frequent Marks of my Tenderness. If yours be so great as you express it, you ought to kiss my Letters a thousand times; you ought to read them with Attention, and weigh every Word, and value every Line. A Lover may receive a thousand endearing Words from a Mistress, more easily than a Billet. One says a great many kind things of course to a Lover, which one is not willing to write, or to give testify’d under one’s Hand, signed and sealed. But when once a Lover has brought his Mistress to that degree of Love, he ought to assure himself, she loves not at the common rate.

Love’s Witness.

_Slight unpremeditated Words are borne_ _By every common Wind into the Air;_ _Carelessly utter’d, die as soon as born,_ _And in one instant give both Hope and Fear:_ _Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind,_ _According to the Caprice of the Mind._

_But_ Billetdoux _are constant Witnesses,_ _Substantial Records to Eternity;_ _Just Evidences, who the Truth confess,_ _On which the Lover safely may rely;_ _They’re serious Thoughts, digested and resolv’d;_ _And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv’d._

I will not doubt, but you give credit to all that is kind in my Letters; and I will believe, you find a Satisfaction in the Entertainment they give you, and that the Hour of reading ‘em is not disagreeable to you. I could wish, your Pleasure might be extreme, even to the degree of suffering the Thought of my Absence not to diminish any part of it. And I could wish too, at the end of your Reading, you would sigh with Pleasure, and say to your self--

The Transport.

_O_ Iris! _While you thus can charm,_ _While at this Distance you can wound and warm;_ _My absent Torments I will bless and bear,_ _That give me such dear Proofs how kind you are._ _Present, the valu’d Store was only seen,_ _Now I am rifling the bright Mass within._

_Every dear, past, and happy Day,_ _When languishing at_ Iris’ _Feet I lay;_ _When all my Prayers and all my Tears could move_ _No more than her Permission, I should love:_ _Vain with my Glorious Destiny,_ _I thought, beyond, scarce any Heaven cou’d be._

_But, charming Maid, now I am taught,_ _That Absence has a thousand Joys to give,_ _On which the Lover present never thought,_ _That recompense the Hours we grieve._ _Rather by Absence let me be undone,_ _Than forfeit all the Pleasures that has won._

With this little Rapture, I wish you wou’d finish the reading my Letters, shut your Scrutore, and quit your Cabinet; for my Love leads to eleven o’clock.

ELEVEN o’.LOCK.

_The Hour to write in._

If my _Watch_ did not inform you ‘tis now time to write, I believe, _Damon_, your Heart wou’d, and tell you also that I should take it kindly, if you would employ a whole Hour that way; and that you should never lose an Occasion of writing to me, since you are assured of the Welcome I give your Letters. Perhaps you will say, an Hour is too much, and that ‘tis not the mode to write long Letters. I grant you, _Damon_, when we write those indifferent ones of Gallantry in course, or necessary Compliment; the handsome comprizing of which in the fewest Words, renders ‘em the most agreeable: But in Love we have a thousand foolish things to say, that of themselves bear no great Sound, but have a mighty Sense in Love; for there is a peculiar Eloquence natural alone to a Lover, and to be understood by no other Creature: To those, Words have a thousand Graces and Sweetnesses; which, to the Unconcerned, appear Meanness, and easy Sense, at the best. But, _Damon_, you and I are none of those ill Judges of the Beauties of Love; we can penetrate beyond the Vulgar, and perceive the fine Soul in every Line, thro’ all the humble Dress of Phrase; when possibly they who think they discern it best in florid Language, do not see it at all. _Love_ was not born or bred in Courts, but Cottages; and, nurs’d in Groves and Shades, smiles on the Plains, and wantons in the Streams; all unador’d and harmless. Therefore, _Damon_, do not consult your Wit in this Affair, but _Love_ alone; speak all that he and Nature taught you, and let the fine Things you learn in Schools alone: Make use of those Flowers you have gather’d there, when you converst with States-men and the Gown. Let _Iris_ possess your Heart in all its simple Innocence, that’s the best Eloquence to her that loves: and that is my Instruction to a Lover that would succeed in his Amours; for I have a Heart very difficult to please, and this is the nearest way to it.

Advice to Lovers.

Lovers, _if you wou’d gain a Heart,_ _Of_ Damon _learn to win the Prize;_ _He’ll shew you all its tend’rest part,_ _And where its greatest Danger lies;_ _The Magazine of its Disdain,_ _Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain._

_If present, do but little say;_ _Enough the silent Lover speaks:_ _But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day;_ _Such Rhet’rick more than Language takes._ _For Words the dullest way do move;_ _And utter’d more to shew your Wit than Love._

_Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart;_ _Its Story is, for Words, too delicate._ _Souls thus exchange, and thus impart,_ _And all their Secrets can relate._ _A Tear, a broken Sigh, she’ll understand;_ _Or the soft trembling Pressings of the Hand._

_Or if your Pain must be in Words exprest,_ _Let ‘em fall gently, unassur’d and slow;_ _And where they fail, your Looks may tell the rest:_ _Thus_ Damon _spoke, and I was conquer’d so._ _The witty Talker has mistook his Art;_ _The modest Lover only charms the Heart._

_Thus, while all day you gazing sit,_ _And fear to speak, and fear your Fate,_ _You more Advantages by Silence get,_ _Than the gay forward Youth with all his Prate._ _Let him be silent here; but when away,_ _Whatever Love can dictate, let him say._

_There let the bashful Soul unveil,_ _And give a loose to Love and Truth:_ _Let him improve the amorous Tale,_ _With all the Force of Words, and Fire of Youth:_ _There all, and any thing let him express;_ _Too long he cannot write, too much confess._

O _Damon_! How well have you made me understand this soft Pleasure! You know my Tenderness too well, not to be sensible how I am charmed with your agreeable long Letters.

The Invention.

_Ah! he who first found out the way_ _Souls to each other to convey,_ _Without dull Speaking, sure must be_ _Something above Humanity._ _Let the fond World in vain dispute,_ _And the first Sacred Mystery impute_ _Of Letters to the learned Brood,_ _And of the Glory cheat a God:_ _’.was_ Love _alone that first the Art essay’d,_ } _And_ Psyche _was the first fair yielding Maid,_ } _That was by the dear_ Billetdoux _betray’d._ }

It is an Art too ingenious to have been found out by Man, and too necessary to Lovers, not to have been invented by the God of Love himself. But, _Damon_, I do not pretend to exact from you those Letters of Gallantry, which, I have told you, are filled with nothing but fine Thoughts, and writ with all the Arts of Wit and Subtilty: I would have yours still all tender unaffected Love, Words unchosen, Thoughts unstudied, and Love unfeign’d. I had rather find more Softness than Wit in your Passion; more of Nature than of Art; more of the Lover than the Poet.

Nor would I have you write any of those little short Letters, that are read over in a Minute; in Love, long Letters bring a long Pleasure: Do not trouble your self to make ‘em fine, or write a great deal of Wit and Sense in a few Lines; that is the Notion of a witty Billet, in any Affair but that of Love. And have a care rather to avoid these Graces to a Mistress; and assure your self, dear _Damon_, that what pleases the Soul pleases the Eye, and the Largeness or Bulk of your Letter shall never offend me; and that I only am displeased when I find them small. A Letter is ever the best and most powerful Agent to a Mistress, it almost always persuades, ‘tis always renewing little Impressions, that possibly otherwise Absence would deface. Make use then, _Damon_, of your Time while it is given you, and thank me that I permit you to write to me: Perhaps I shall not always continue in the Humour of suffering you to do so; and it may so happen, by some turn of Chance and Fortune, that you may be deprived, at the same time, both of my Presence, and of the Means of sending to me. I will believe that such an Accident would be a great Misfortune to you, for I have often heard you say, that, ‘To make the most happy Lover suffer Martyrdom, one need only forbid him Seeing, Speaking and Writing to the Object he loves.’ Take all the Advantages then you can, you cannot give me too often Marks too powerful of your Passion: Write therefore during this Hour, every Day. I give you leave to believe, that while you do so, you are serving me the most obligingly and agreeably you can, while absent; and that you are giving me a Remedy against all Grief, Uneasiness, Melancholy, and Despair; nay, if you exceed your Hour, you need not be asham’d. The Time you employ in this kind Devoir, is the Time that I shall be grateful for, and no doubt will recompense it. You ought not however to neglect Heaven for me; I will give you time for your Devotion, for my _Watch_ tells you ‘tis time to go to the Temple.

TWELVE o’.LOCK.

_Indispensible Duty._

There are certain Duties which one ought never to neglect: That of adoring the Gods is of this nature; and which we ought to pay, from the bottom of our Hearts: And that, _Damon_, is the only time I will dispense with your not thinking on me. But I would not have you go to one of those Temples, where the celebrated Beauties, and those that make a profession of Gallantry, go; and who come thither only to see, and be seen; and whither they repair, more to shew their Beauty and Dress, than to honour the Gods. If you will take my advice, and oblige my wish, you shall go to those that are least frequented, and you shall appear there like a Man that has a perfect Veneration for all things Sacred.

The Instruction.

Damon, _if your Heart and Flame,_ _You wish, should always be the same,_ _Do not give it leave to rove,_ _Nor expose it to new Harms:_ _Ere you think on’t, you may love,_ _If you gaze on Beauty’s Charms:_ _If with me you wou’d not part,_ _Turn your Eyes into your Heart._

_If you find a new Desire_ _In your easy Soul take fire,_ _From the tempting Ruin fly;_ _Think it faithless, think it base:_ _Fancy soon will fade and die,_ _If you wisely cease to gaze._ _Lovers should have Honour too,_ _Or they pay but half Love’s due._

_Do not to the Temple go,_ _With design to gaze or show:_ _Whate’er Thoughts you have abroad,_ _Tho’ you can deceive elsewhere,_ _There’s no feigning with your God;_ _Souls should be all perfect there._ _The Heart that’s to the Altar brought,_ _Only Heaven should fill its Thought._

_Do not your sober Thoughts perplex,_ _By gazing on the Ogling Sex:_ _Or if Beauty call your Eyes,_ _Do not on the Object dwell;_ _Guard your Heart from the Surprize,_ _By thinking_ Iris _doth excell._ _Above all Earthly Things I’d be,_ } Damon, _most belov’d by thee;_ } _And only Heaven must rival me._ }

ONE o’.LOCK.

_Forc’d Entertainment._

I Perceive it will be very difficult for you to quit the Temple, without being surrounded with Compliments from People of Ceremony, Friends, and Newsmongers, and several of those sorts of Persons, who afflict and busy themselves, and rejoice at a hundred things they have no Interest in; Coquets and Politicians, who make it the Business of their whole Lives, to gather all the News of the Town; adding or diminishing according to the Stock of their Wit and Invention, and spreading it all abroad to the believing Fools and Gossips; and perplexing every body with a hundred ridiculous Novels, which they pass off for Wit and Entertainment; or else some of those Recounters of Adventures, that are always telling of Intrigues, and that make a Secret to a hundred People of a thousand foolish things they have heard: Like a certain pert and impertinent Lady of the Town, whose Youth and Beauty being past, sets up for Wit, to uphold a feeble Empire over idle Hearts; and whose Character is this:

The Coquet.

Melinda, _who had never been_ _Esteem’d a Beauty at fifteen,_ _Always amorous was, and kind:_ _To every Swain she lent an Ear;_ _Free as Air, but false as Wind;_ _Yet none complain’d, she was severe._ _She eas’d more than she made complain;_ _Was always singing, pert, and vain._

_Where-e’er the Throng was, she was seen,_ _And swept the Youths along the Green;_ _With equal Grace she flatter’d all;_ _And fondly proud of all Address,_ _Her Smiles invite, her Eyes do call,_ _And her vain Heart her Looks confess._ _She rallies this, to that she bow’d,_ _Was talking ever, laughing loud._

_On every side she makes advance,_ _And every where a Confidence;_ _She tells for Secrets all she knows,_ _And all to know she does pretend:_ _Beauty in Maids she treats as Foes:_ _But every handsome Youth as Friend._ _Scandal still passes off for Truth;_ _And Noise and Nonsense, Wit and Youth._

Coquet _all o’er, and every part,_ _Yet wanting Beauty, even of Art;_ _Herds with the ugly, and the old;_ _And plays the Critick on the rest:_ _Of Men, the bashful, and the bold,_ _Either, and all, by turns, likes best:_ _Even now, tho’ Youth be langisht, she_ _Sets up for Love and Gallantry._