Part 8

_Spight of her Virtue and her Pride,_ _Every Morning I am blest_ _With what to_ Damon _is deny’d;_ _To view her when she is undrest._ _All her Heaven of Beauty’s shown_ _To triumphing Me----alone._

_Scarce the prying Beams of Light,_ _Or th’ impatient God of Day,_ _Are allow’d so near a Sight,_ _Or dare profane her with a Ray;_ _When she has appear’d to me,_ _Like_ Venus _rising from the Sea._

_But Oh! I must those Charms conceal,_ _All too divine for vulgar Eyes:_ _Should I my secret Joys reveal,_ _Of sacred Trust I break the Ties;_ _And_ Damon _would with Envy die,_ _Who hopes one Day to be as blest as I._

Extravagant with my Joys, I have stray’d beyond my Limits; for I was telling you of the wond’rous Fineness of your Eyes, which no Mortal can resist, nor any Heart stand the Force of their Charms, and the most difficult Conquest they gain, scarce cost ‘em the expence of a Look. They are modest and tender, chaste and languishing. There you may take a view of the whole Soul, and see Wit and Good-Nature (those two inseparable Virtues of the Mind) in an extraordinary measure. In fine, you see all that fair Eyes can produce, to make themselves ador’d. And when they are angry, they strike an unresistible Awe upon the Soul; And those Severities _Damon_ wishes may perpetually accompany them, during their Absence from him; for ‘tis with such Eyes, he would have you receive all his Rivals.

_Keep, lovely Maid, the Softness In your Eyes,_ _To flatter_ Damon _with another Day:_ _When at your Feet the ravish’d Lover lies,_ _Then put on all that’s tender, all that’s gay:_ _And for the Griefs your Absence makes him prove,_ _Give him the softest, dearest Looks of Love._

_His trembling Heart with sweetest Smiles caress,_ _And in your Eyes soft Wishes let him find;_ _That your Regret of Absence may confess,_ _In which no Sense of Pleasure you could find:_ _And to restore him, let your faithful Eyes_ _Declare, that all his Rivals you despise._

_The MOUTH of_ IRIS.

I perceive your Modesty would impose Silence on me: But, Oh fair _Iris_! do not think to present your self before a Glass, if you would not have it tell you all your Beauties. Content your self that I only speak of ‘em, _en passant_; for should I speak what I would, I should dwell all Day upon each Particular, and still say something new. Give me liberty then to speak of your fine Mouth: You need only open it a little, and you will see the most delicate Teeth that ever you beheld; the whitest, and the best set. Your Lips are the finest in the World; so round, so soft, so plump, so dimpled, and of the loveliest Colour. And when you smile, Oh! what Imagination can conceive how sweet it is, that has not seen you smiling? I cannot describe what I so admire; and ’.is in vain to those who have not seen _Iris_.

_Oh_ Iris! _boast that one peculiar Charm,_ _That has so many Conquests made;_ _So innocent, yet capable of Harm;_ _So just it self, yet has so oft betray’d:_ _Where a thousand Graces dwell,_ _And wanton round in ev’ry Smile._

_A thousand Loves do listen when you speak,_ _And catch each Accent as it flies:_ _Rich flowing Wit, whene’er you Silence break,_ _Flows from your Tongue, and sparkles in your Eyes._ _Whether you talk, or silent are,_ _Your Lips immortal Beauties wear._

_The NECK of_ IRIS.

All your Modesty, all your nice Care, cannot hide the ravishing Beauties of your Neck; we must see it, coy as you are; and see it the whitest, and finest shaped, that ever was form’d. Oh! why will you cover it? You know all handsome Things would be seen. And Oh! how often have you made your Lovers envy your Scarf, or any thing that hides so fine an Object from their Sight. _Damon_ himself complains of your too nice Severity. Pray do not hide it so carefully. See how perfectly turn’d it is! with small blue Veins, wand’ring and ranging here and there, like little Rivulets, that wanton o’er the flowery Meads! See how the round white rising Breasts heave with every Breath, as if they disdain’d to be confin’d to a Covering; and repel the malicious Cloud that would obscure their Brightness!

_Fain I would have leave to tell_ _The Charms that on your Bosom dwell;_ _Describe it like some flow’ry Field,_ _That does ten thousand Pleasures yield;_ _A thousand gliding Springs and Groves;_ _All Receptacles for Loves:_ _But Oh! what_ Iris _hides, must be_ _Ever sacred kept by me._

_The ARMS and HANDS of_ IRIS.

I shall not be put to much trouble to shew you your Hands and Arms, because you may view them without my Help; and you are very unjust, if you have not admir’d ‘em a thousand times. The beautiful Colour and Proportion of your Arm is unimitable, and your Hand is dazzling, fine, small, and plump; long-pointed Fingers delicately turned; dimpled on the snowy out-side, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft Palm. Oh _Iris_! nothing equals your fair Hand; that Hand, of which _Love_ so often makes such use to draw his Bow, when he would send the Arrow home with more Success; and which irresistibly wounds those, who possibly have not yet seen your Eyes: And when you have been veil’d, that lovely Hand has gain’d you a thousand Adorers. And I have heard _Damon_ say, _Without the Aid of more Beauties, that alone had been sufficient to have made an absolute Conquest, o’er his Soul_. And he has often vow’d, _It never toucht him but it made his Blood run with little irregular Motions in his Veins, his Breath beat short and double, his Blushes rise, and his very Soul dance_.

_Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize_ _’.ove any one peculiar Grace,_ _While he is dying for the Eyes_ _And doating on the lovely Face!_ _The Unconsid’ring little knows,_ _How much he to this Beauty owes._

_That, when the Lover absent is,_ _Informs him of his Mistress’ Heart;_ _’.is that which gives him all his Bliss,_ _When dear Love-Secrets ‘twill impart,_ _That plights the Faith the Maid bestows;_ _And that confirms the tim’rous Vows._

_’.is that betrays the Tenderness,_ _Which the too bashful Tongue denies:_ _’.is that which does the Heart confess,_ _And spares the Language of the Eyes._ _’.is that which Treasure gives so vast;_ _Ev’n Iris ‘twill to Damon give at last._

_The GRACE and AIR of_ IRIS.

’.is 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._

_The GOODNESS and COMPLAISANCE of_ IRIS.

Who but your Lovers, fair _Iris_! doubts but you are the most complaisant Person in the World; and that with so much Sweetness you oblige all, that you command in yielding: And as you gain the Heart of both Sexes, with the Affability of your noble Temper; so all are proud and vain of obliging you. And, _Iris_, you may live assur’d, that your Empire is eternally established by your Beauty and your Goodness: Your Power is confirm’d, and you grow in Strength every Minute: Your Goodness gets you Friends, and your Beauty Lovers.

This Goodness is not one of those, whose Folly renders it easy to every Desirer; but a pure Effect of the Generosity of your Soul; such as Prudence alone manages, according to the Merit of the Person to whom it is extended; and those whom you esteem, receive the sweet Marks of it, and only your Lovers complain; yet even then you charm. And tho’ sometimes you can be a little disturb’d, yet thro’ your Anger your Goodness shines; and you are but too much afraid, that that may bear a false Interpretation: For oftentimes Scandal makes that pass for an Effect of Love, which is purely that of Complaisance.

Never had any body more Tenderness for their Friends, than _Iris_: Their Presence gives her Joy, their Absence Trouble; and when she cannot see them, she finds no Pleasure like speaking of them obligingly. Friendship reigns in your Heart, and Sincerity on your Tongue. Your Friendship is so strong, so constant, and so tender, that it charms, pleases, and satisfies all, that are not your Adorers. _Damon_ therefore is excusable, if he be not contented with your noble Friendship alone; for he is the most tender of that Number.

_No! give me all, th’ impatient Lover cries;_ _Without your Soul I cannot live:_ _Dull Friendship cannot mine suffice,_ _That dies for all you have to give._ _The Smiles, the Vows, the Heart must all be mine;_ _I cannot spare one Thought, or Wish of thine._

_I sigh, I languish all the Day;_ _Each Minute ushers in my Groans:_ _To ev’ry God in vain I pray;_ _In ev’ry Grove repeat my Moans._ _Still_ Iris’ _Charms are all my Sorrows Themes!_ _They pain me waking, and they rack in Dreams._

_Return, fair_ Iris! _Oh, return!_ _Lest sighing long your Slave destroys._ _I wish, I rave, I faint, I burn;_ _Restore me quickly all my Joys:_ _Your Mercy else will come too late;_ _Distance in Love more cruel is than Hate._

_The WIT of_ IRIS.

You are deceiv’d in me, fair _Iris_, if you take me for one of those ordinary Glasses, that represent the Beauty only of the Body; I remark to you also the Beauties of the Soul: And all about you declares yours the finest that ever was formed; that you have a Wit that surprizes, and is always new: ‘Tis none of those that loses its Lustre when one considers it; the more we examine yours, the more adorable we find it. You say nothing that is not at once agreeable and solid; ‘tis always quick and ready, without Impertinence, that little Vanity of the Fair: who, when they know they have Wit, rarely manage it so, as not to abound in Talking; and think, that all they say must please, because luckily they sometimes chance to do so. But _Iris_ never speaks, but ’.is of use; and gives a Pleasure to all that hear her: She has the perfect Air of penetrating, even the most secret Thoughts. How often have you known, without being told, all that has past in _Damon’s_ Heart? For all great Wits are Prophets too.

_Tell me; Oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess;_ _For you alone can tell my Love’s Success._ _The Lines in my dejected Face,_ _I fear, will lead you to no kind Result:_ _It is your own that you must trace;_ _Those of your Heart you must consult._ _’.is there my Fortune I must learn,_ _And all that_ Damon _does concern._

_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._ }

POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS:

WITH A VOYAGE TO THE

ISLAND OF LOVE.

To the Right Honourable, JAMES, Earl of _Salisbury_, Viscount _Cramborn_, and Baron of _Islington_.

My Lord,