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._