_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.