If my _Watch_ did not inform you ‘tis now time to write, I believe, _Damon_, your Heart wou’d, and tell you also that I should take it kindly, if you would employ a whole Hour that way; and that you should never lose an Occasion of writing to me, since you are assured of the Welcome I give your Letters. Perhaps you will say, an Hour is too much, and that ‘tis not the mode to write long Letters. I grant you, _Damon_, when we write those indifferent ones of Gallantry in course, or necessary Compliment; the handsome comprizing of which in the fewest Words, renders ‘em the most agreeable: But in Love we have a thousand foolish things to say, that of themselves bear no great Sound, but have a mighty Sense in Love; for there is a peculiar Eloquence natural alone to a Lover, and to be understood by no other Creature: To those, Words have a thousand Graces and Sweetnesses; which, to the Unconcerned, appear Meanness, and easy Sense, at the best. But, _Damon_, you and I are none of those ill Judges of the Beauties of Love; we can penetrate beyond the Vulgar, and perceive the fine Soul in every Line, thro’ all the humble Dress of Phrase; when possibly they who think they discern it best in florid Language, do not see it at all. _Love_ was not born or bred in Courts, but Cottages; and, nurs’d in Groves and Shades, smiles on the Plains, and wantons in the Streams; all unador’d and harmless. Therefore, _Damon_, do not consult your Wit in this Affair, but _Love_ alone; speak all that he and Nature taught you, and let the fine Things you learn in Schools alone: Make use of those Flowers you have gather’d there, when you converst with States-men and the Gown. Let _Iris_ possess your Heart in all its simple Innocence, that’s the best Eloquence to her that loves: and that is my Instruction to a Lover that would succeed in his Amours; for I have a Heart very difficult to please, and this is the nearest way to it. Advice to Lovers. Lovers, _if you wou’d gain a Heart,_ _Of_ Damon _learn to win the Prize;_ _He’ll shew you all its tend’rest part,_ _And where its greatest Danger lies;_ _The Magazine of its Disdain,_ _Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain._ _If present, do but little say;_ _Enough the silent Lover speaks:_ _But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day;_ _Such Rhet’rick more than Language takes._ _For Words the dullest way do move;_ _And utter’d more to shew your Wit than Love._ _Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart;_ _Its Story is, for Words, too delicate._ _Souls thus exchange, and thus impart,_ _And all their Secrets can relate._ _A Tear, a broken Sigh, she’ll understand;_ _Or the soft trembling Pressings of the Hand._