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.