Part 5

I Will believe, _Damon_, that you have been so well entertained during this Hour, and have found so much Sweetness in these Thoughts, that if one did not tell you that Supper waits, you would lose your self in Reflections so pleasing, many more Minutes. But you must go where you are expected; perhaps, among the fair, the young, the gay; but do not abandon your Heart to too much Joy, tho’ you have so much reason to be contented: but the greatest Pleasures are always imperfect, if the Object belov’d do not partake of it. For this reason be chearful and merry with reserve: Do not talk too much, I know you do not love it; and if you do it, ‘twill be the effect of too much Complaisance, or with some design of pleasing too well; for you know your own charming Power, and how agreeable your Wit and Conversation are to all the World. Remember, I am covetous of every Word you speak, that is not address’d to me, and envy the happy list’ner, if I am not by. And I may reply to you as _Aminta_ did to _Philander_, when he charged her of loving a Talker: and because, perhaps, you have not heard it, I will, to divert you, send it to you; and at the same time assure you, _Damon_, that your more noble Quality, of speaking little, has reduc’d me to a perfect Abhorrence of those wordy Sparks, that value themselves upon their ready and much talking upon every trivial Subject, and who have so good an Opinion of their Talent that way, they will let no body edge in a word, or a reply; but will make all the Conversation themselves, that they may pass for very entertaining Persons, and pure Company. But the Verses--

The Reformation.

Philander, _since you’ll have it so,_ _I grant I was impertinent;_ _And, till this Moment, did not know,_ _Thro’ all my Life what ‘twas I meant._ _Your kind Opinion was the flattering Glass,_ _In which my Mind found how deform’d it was._

_In your clear Sense, which knows no Art,_ _I saw the Errors of my Soul:_ _And all the Foibless of my Heart_ _With one Reflection you controul._ _Kind as a God, and gently you chastise:_ _By what you hate, you teach me to be wise._

_Impertinence, my Sex’s shame,_ _That has so long my Life pursu’d,_ _You with such Modesty reclaim,_ _As all the Women has subdu’d._ _To so Divine a Power what must I owe,_ _That renders me so like the perfect You?_

_That conversable Thing I hate,_ _Already, with a just Disdain,_ _That prides himself upon his Prate,_ _And is, of Words, that Nonsense, vain:_ _When in your few appears such Excellence,_ _As have reproach’d, and charm’d me into Sense._

_For ever may I list’ning sit,_ _Tho’ but each Hour a Word be born;_ _I would attend the coming Wit,_ _And bless what can so well inform._ _Let the dull World henceforth to Words be damn’d;_ _I’m into nobler Sense than Talking sham’d._

I believe you are so good a Lover, as to be of my Opinion; and that you will neither force your self against Nature, nor find much occasion to lavish out those excellent things that must proceed from you, whenever you speak. If all Women were like me, I should have more reason to fear your Silence than your Talk: for you have a thousand ways to charm without speaking, and those which to me shew a great deal more Concern. But, _Damon_, you know the greatest part of my Sex judge the fine Gentleman by the Volubility of his Tongue, by his Dexterity in Repartee, and cry--_Oh! he never wants fine things to say: He’s eternally talking the most surprizing things._ But, _Damon_, you are well assur’d, I hope, that _Iris_ is none of these _Coquets_: at least, if she had any spark of it once in her Nature, she is by the excellency of your contrary Temper taught to know, and scorn the folly: And take heed your Conduct never give me cause to suspect you have deceiv’d me in your Temper.

TWELVE o’.LOCK.

_Complaisance._

Nevertheless, _Damon_, Civility requires a little Complaisance after Supper; and I am assur’d, you can never want that, tho’ I confess, you are not accus’d of too general a Complaisance, and do not often make use of it to those Persons you have an Indifference for: tho’ one is not the less esteemable for having more of this than one ought: and tho’ an excess of it be a Fault, ‘tis a very excusable one. Have therefore some for those with whom you are: You may laugh with ‘em, drink with ‘em, dance or sing with ‘em; yet think of me. You may discourse of a thousand indifferent things with ‘em; and at the same time still think of me. If the Subject be any beautiful Lady, whom they praise, either for her Person, Wit, or Virtue, you may apply it to me: And if you dare not say it aloud, at least, let your Heart answer in this language:

_Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise,_ _Can give us Love a thousand ways;_ _Her Wit and Beauty charming are;_ _But still my_ Iris _is more fair._

No body ever spoke before me of a faithful Lover, but still I sigh’d, and thought of _Damon_: And ever when they tell me Tales of Love, any soft pleasing Intercourses of an Amour; Oh! with what Pleasures do I listen! and with Pleasure answer ‘em, either with my Eyes, or Tongue--

_That Lover may his_ Sylvia _warm,_ _But cannot, like my_ Damon, _charm._

If I have not all those excellent Qualities you meet with in those beautiful People, I am however very glad that Love prepossesses your Heart to my advantage: And I need not tell you, _Damon_, that a true Lover ought to persuade himself, that all other Objects ought to give place to her, for whom his Heart sighs--But see, my _Cupid_ tells you ‘tis One o’.lock, and that you ought not to be longer from your Apartment; where, while you are undressing, I will give you leave to say to your self--

The Regret.

_Alas! and must the Sun decline,_ _Before it have inform’d my Eyes_ _Of all that’s glorious, all that’s fine,_ _Of all I sigh for, all I prize?_ _How joyful were those happy Days,_ _When_ Iris _spread her charming Rays,_ _Did my unwearied Heart inspire_ _With never-ceasing awful Fire,_ _And e’ery Minute gave me new Desire!_ _But now, alas! all dead and pale,_ _Like Flow’rs that wither in the Shade:_ _Where no kind Sun-beams can prevail,_ _To raise its cold and fading Head,_ _I sink into my useless Bed._ _I grasp the senseless Pillow as I lie;_ _A thousand times, in vain, I sighing cry,_ _Ah! wou’d to Heaven my_ Iris _were as nigh._

ONE o’.LOCK.

_Impossibility to Sleep._

You have been up long enough; and _Cupid_, who takes care of your Health, tells you, ‘tis time for you to go to bed. Perhaps you may not sleep as soon as you are laid, and possibly you may pass an Hour in Bed, before you shut your Eyes. In this impossibility of sleeping, I think it very proper for you to imagine what I am doing where I am. Let your Fancy take a little Journey then, invisible, to observe my Actions and my Conduct. You will find me sitting alone in my Cabinet (for I am one that do not love to go to bed early) and will find me very uneasy and pensive, pleas’d with none of those things that so well entertain others. I shun all Conversation, as far as Civility will allow, and find no Satisfaction like being alone, where my Soul may, without interruption, converse with _Damon_. I sigh, and sometimes you will see my Cheeks wet with Tears, that insensibly glide down at a thousand Thoughts that present themselves soft and afflicting. I partake of all your Inquietude. On other things I think with indifference, if ever my Thoughts do stray from the more agreeable Object. I find, however, a little Sweetness in this Thought, that, during my Absence, your Heart thinks of me, when mine sighs for you. Perhaps I am mistaken, and that at the same time that you are the Entertainment of all my Thoughts, I am no more in yours; and perhaps you are thinking of those things that immortalize the Young and Brave, either by those Glories the Muses flatter you with, or that of _Bellona_, and the God of War; and serving now a Monarch, whose glorious Acts in Arms has out-gone all the feign’d and real Heroes of any Age, who has, himself, out-done whatever History can produce of great and brave, and set so illustrious an Example to the Under-World, that it is not impossible, as much a Lover as you are, but you are thinking now how to render your self worthy the Glory of such a God-like Master, by projecting a thousand things of Gallantry and Danger. And tho’, I confess, such Thoughts are proper for your Youth, your Quality, and the Place you have the honour to hold under our Sovereign, yet let me tell you, _Damon_, you will not be without Inquietude, if you think of either being a delicate Poet, or a brave Warrior; for _Love_ will still interrupt your Glory, however you may think to divert him either by writing or fighting. And you ought to remember these Verses:

Love and Glory.

_Beneath the kind protecting Laurel’s shade,_ _For sighing Lovers, and for Warriors made,_ _The soft_ Adonis, _and rough_ Mars _were laid._

_Both were design’d to take their Rest;_ _But_ Love _the gentle Boy opprest,_ _And false Alarms shook the stern Heroe’s Breast._

_This thinks to soften all his Toils of War,_ _In the dear Arms of the obliging Fair;_ _And that, by Hunting, to divert his Care._

_All Day, o’er Hills and Plains, wild Beasts he chas’d,_ _Swift as the flying Winds, his eager haste;_ _In vain, the God of Love pursues as fast._

_But oh! no Sports, no Toils, divertive prove,_ _The Evening still returns him to the Grove,_ _To sigh and languish for the Queen of Love:_

_Where Elegies and Sonnets he does frame,_ _And to the list’ning Echoes sighs her Name,_ _And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame._

_The Warrior in the dusty Camp all day_ _With rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essay_ _To fright the tender flatt’ring God away._

_But still, alas, in vain: whate’er Delight,_ _What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,_ Love _still revenges it at night._

_’.is then he haunts the Royal Tent,_ _The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,_ _And all his Resolutions does prevent._

_In all his Pains,_ Love _mixt his Smart;_ _In every Wound he feels a Dart;_ _And the soft God is trembling in his Heart._

_Then he retires to shady Groves,_ _And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,_ _And strives to fly from what he cannot lose._

_While thus he lay,_ Bellona _came,_ _And with a gen’rous fierce Disdain,_ _Upbraids him with his feeble Flame._

_Arise, the World’s great Terror, and their Care;_ _Behold the glitt’ring Host from far,_ _That waits the Conduct of the God of War._

_Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were made_ _To crown the noble Victor’s Head,_ _Why thus supinely art thou laid?_

_Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew,_ _Thy Sun-parch’d Cheeks why do I view_ _The shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?_

_What God has wrought these universal Harms?_ _What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms,_ _Has made the Heroe deaf to War’s Alarms?_

_Now let the conqu’ring Ensigns up be furl’d:_ _Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl’d;_ _And idle, lose the Empire of the World._

_In fond effeminate Delights go on;_ _Lose all the Glories you have won:_ _Bravely resolve to love, and be undone._

_’.is thus the martial Virgin pleads;_ _Thus she the am’rous God persuades_ _To fly from_ Venus, _and the flow’ry Meads._

You see here that Poets and Warriors are oftentimes in affliction, even under the Shades of their protecting Laurels; and let the Nymphs and Virgins sing what they please to their memory, under the Myrtles, and on flowery Beds, they are much better Days than in the Campagne. Nor do the Crowns of Glory surpass those of Love: The first is but an empty Name, which is won, kept and lost with Hazard; but Love more nobly employs a brave Soul, and all his Pleasures are solid and lasting; and when one has a worthy Object of one’s Flame, Glory accompanies Love too. But go to sleep, the Hour is come; and ‘tis now that your Soul ought to be entertain’d in Dreams.

TWO o’.LOCK.

_Conversation in Dreams._

I doubt not but you will think it very bold and arbitrary, that my _Watch_ should pretend to rule even your sleeping Hours, and that my _Cupid_ should govern your very Dreams; which are but Thoughts disordered, in which Reason has no part; Chimera’s of the Imagination, and no more. But tho’ my _Watch_ does not pretend to Counsel unreasonably, yet you must allow it here, if not to pass the Bounds, at least to advance to the utmost Limits of it. I am assur’d, that after having thought so much of me in the Day, you will think of me also in the Night. And the first Dream my _Watch_ permits you to make, is to think you are in Conversation with me.

Imagine, _Damon_, that you are talking to me of your Passion, with all the Transport of a Lover, and that I hear you with Satisfaction; that all my Looks and Blushes, while you are speaking, give you new Hopes and Assurances; that you are not indifferent to me; and that I give you a thousand Testimonies of my Tenderness, all innocent and obliging.

While you are saying all that Love can dictate, all that Wit and good Manners can invent, and all that I wish to hear from _Damon_, believe in this Dream, all flattering and dear, that after having shewed me the Ardour of your Flame, I confess to you the Bottom of my Heart, and all the loving Secrets there; that I give you Sigh for Sigh, Tenderness for Tenderness, Heart for Heart, and Pleasure for Pleasure. And I would have your Sense of this Dream so perfect, and your Joy so entire, that if it happen you should awake with the Satisfaction of this Dream, you should find your Heart still panting with the soft Pleasure of the dear deceiving Transport, and you should be ready to cry out,

_Ah! how sweet it is to dream,_ _When charming_ Iris _is the Theme!_

For such, I wish, my _Damon_, your sleeping and your waking Thoughts should render me to your Heart.

THREE o’.LOCK.

_Capricious Suffering in Dreams._

It is but just to mix a little Chagrin with these Pleasures, a little Bitter with your Sweet; you may be cloy’d with too long an Imagination of my Favours: and I will have your Fancy in Dreams represent me to it, as the most capricious Maid in the World. I know, here you will accuse my _Watch_, and blame me with unnecessary Cruelty, as you will call it: but Lovers have their little Ends, their little Advantages, to pursue by Methods wholly unaccountable to all, but that Heart which contrives ’.m: And, as good a Lover as I believe you, you will not enter into my Design at first sight; and tho’, on reasonable Thoughts, you will be satisfied with this Conduct of mine, at its first Approach you will be ready to cry out--

The Request.

_Oh_ Iris! _let my sleeping Hours be fraught_ _With Joys, which you deny my waking Thought._ _Is’t not enough you absent are?_ _Is’t not enough I sigh all day,_ _And lanquish out my Life in Care,_ _To e’ery Passion made a Prey?_ _I burn with Love, and soft Desire;_ _I rave with Jealousy and Fear:_ _All Day, for Ease, my Soul I tire;_ _In vain I search it ev’ry where:_ _It dwells not with the Witty or the Fair._

_It is not in the Camp or Court,_ _In Business, Musick, or in Sport;_ _The Plays, the Park, and Mall afford_ _No more than the dull Basset-board._ _The Beauties in the Drawing-room,_ _With all their Sweetness, all their Bloom,_ _No more my faithful Eyes invite,_ _Nor rob my_ Iris _of a Sigh or Glance,_ _Unless soft Thoughts of her incite_ _A Smile, or trivial Complaisance._ _Then since my Days so anxious prove,_ _Ah, cruel Tyrant! give_ _A little Loose to Joys in Love,_ _And let your_ Damon _live._

_Let him in Dreams be happy made,_ _And let his Sleep some Bliss provide:_ _The nicest Maid may yield in Night’s dark shade,_ _What she so long by Day-light had deny’d._ _There let me think you present are,_ _And court my Pillow for my Fair._ _There let me find you kind, and that you give_ _All that a Man of Honour dares receive._ _And may my Eyes eternal Watches keep,_ _Rather than want that Pleasure when I sleep._

Some such Complaint as this I know you will make; but, _Damon_, if the little Quarrels of Lovers render the reconciling Moments so infinitely charming, you must needs allow, that these little Chagrin in capricious Dreams must awaken you to more Joy to find ‘em but Dreams, than if you had met with no Disorder there. ‘Tis for this reason that I would have you suffer a little Pain for a coming Pleasure; nor, indeed is it possible for you to escape the Dreams my _Cupid_ points you out. You shall dream that I have a thousand _Foibles_, something of the lightness of my Sex; that my Soul is employ’d in a thousand Vanities; that (proud and fond of Lovers) I make advances for the Glory of a Slave, without any other Interest or Design than that of being ador’d. I will give you leave to think my Heart fickle, and that, far from resigning it to any one, I lend it only for a Day, or an Hour, and take it back at pleasure; that I am a very _Coquet_, even to Impertinence.

All this I give you leave to think, and to offend me: but ‘tis in sleep only that I permit it; for I would never pardon you the least Offence of this nature, if in any other Kind than in a Dream. Nor is it enough Affliction to you, to imagine me thus idly vain; but you are to pass on to a hundred more capricious Humours: as that I exact of you a hundred unjust Things; that I pretend you should break off with all your Friends, and for the future have none at all; that I will myself do those Things, which I violently condemn in you; and that I will have for others, as well as you, that tender Friendship that resembles Love, or rather that Love which People call Friendship; and that I will not, after all, have you dare complain on me.

In fine, be as ingenious as you please to torment your self; and believe, that I am become unjust, ungrateful, and insensible: But were I so indeed, O _Damon_! consider your awaking Heart, and tell me, would your Love stand the proof of all these Faults in me? But know, that I would have you believe I have none of these Weaknesses, tho’ I am not wholly without Faults, but those will be excusable to a Lover; and this Notion I have of a perfect one:

_Whate’er fantastick Humours rule the Fair,_ _She’s still the Lover’s Dotage, and his Care._

FOUR o’.LOCK.

_Jealousy in Dreams_.

Do not think, _Damon_, to wake yet; for I design you shall yet suffer a little more: Jealousy must now possess you, that Tyrant over the Heart, that compels your very Reason, and seduces all your Good-Nature. And in this Dream you must believe That in sleeping, which you could not do me the injustice to do when awake. And here you must explain all my Actions to the utmost disadvantage: Nay, I will wish, that the Force of this Jealousy may be so extreme, that it may make you languish in Grief, and be overcome with Anger.

You shall now imagine, that one of your Rivals is with me, interrupting all you say, or hindering all you would say; that I have no Attention to what you say aloud to me, but that I incline mine Ear to hearken to all that he whispers to me. You shall repine, that he pursues me every where, and is eternally at your heels if you approach me; that I caress him with Sweetness in my Eyes, and that Vanity in my Heart, that possesses the Humours of almost all the Fair; that is, to believe it greatly for my Glory to have abundance of Rivals for my Lovers. I know you love me too well not to be extreamely uneasy in the Company of a Rival, and to have one perpetually near me; for let him be belov’d or not by the Mistress, it must be confess’d, a Rival is a very troublesome Person. But, to afflict you to the utmost, I will have you imagine that my Eyes approve of all his Thoughts; that they flatter him with Hopes; and that I have taken away my Heart from you, to make a Present of it to this more lucky Man. You shall suffer, while possess’d with this Dream, all that a cruel Jealousy can make a tender Soul suffer.

The Torment.

_O Jealousy! thou Passion most ingrate!_ _Tormenting as Despair, envious as Hate!_ _Spightful as Witchcraft, which th’ Invoker harms;_ _Worse than the Wretch that suffers by its Charms._ _Thou subtil Poison in the Fancy bred,_ } _Diffus’d thro’ every Vein, the Heart and Head,_ } _And over all, like wild Contagion spread._ } _Thou, whose sole Property is to destroy,_ _Thou Opposite to Good, Antipathy to Joy;_ _Whose Attributes are cruel Rage and Fire,_ _Reason debauch’d, false Sense, and mad Desire._

In fine, it is a Passion that ruffles all the Senses, and disorders the whole Frame of Nature. It makes one hear and see what was never spoke, and what never was in view. ‘Tis the Bane of Health and Beauty, an unmannerly Intruder; and an Evil of Life worse than Death. She is a very cruel Tyrant in the Heart; she possesses and pierces it with infinite Unquiets; and we may lay it down as a certain Maxim--

_She that wou’d rack a Lover’s Heart_ _To the extent of Cruelty,_ _Must his Tranquillity subvert_ _To the most tort’ring Jealousy._

I speak too sensibly of this Passion, not to have lov’d well enough to have been touch’d with it: And you shall be this unhappy Lover _Damon_, during this Dream, in which nothing shall present it self to your tumultuous Thoughts, that shall not bring its Pain. You shall here pass and repass a hundred Designs, that shall confound one another. In fine, _Damon_, Anger, Hatred, and Revenge, shall surround your Heart.

_There they shall all together reign_ _With mighty Force, with mighty Pain;_ _In spight of Reason, in contempt of Love:_ _Sometimes by turns, sometimes united move._

FIVE o’.LOCK.

_Quarrels in Dreams._

I perceive you are not able to suffer all this Injustice, nor can I permit it any longer: and tho’ you commit no Crime yourself, yet you believe in this Dream, that I complain of the Injuries you do my Fame; and that I am extreamely angry with a Jealousy so prejudicial to my Honour. Upon this belief you accuse me of Weakness; you resolve to see me no more, and are making a thousand feeble Vows against Love. You esteem me as a false one, and resolve to cease loving the vain _Coquet_, and will say to me, as a certain Friend of yours said to his false Mistress:

The Inconstant.

_Tho’., Silvia, _you are very fair,_ _Yet disagreeable to me;_ _And since you so inconstant are,_ _Your Beauty’s damn’d with Levity._ _Your Wit, your most offensive Arms,_ _For want of Judgment, wants its Charms._

_To every Lover that is new,_ _All new and charming you surprize;_ _But when your fickle Mind they view,_ _They shun the danger of your Eyes._ _Should you a Miracle of Beauty show,_ _Yet you’re inconstant, and will still be so._

’.is thus you will think of me: And in fine, _Damon_, during this Dream, we are in perpetual State of War.

_Thus both resolve to break their Chain,_ _And think to do’t without much Pain,_ _But Oh! alas! we strive in vain._

_For Lovers, of themselves, can nothing do;_ _There must be the Consent of two:_ _You give it me, and I must give it you._

And if we shall never be free, till we acquit one another, this Tye between you and I, _Damon_, is likely to last as long as we live; therefore in vain you endeavour, but can never attain your End; and in conclusion you will say, in thinking of me: