_Where-e’er the Throng was, she was seen,_ _And swept the Youths along the Green;_ _With equal Grace she flatter’d all;_ _And fondly proud of all Address,_ _Her Smiles invite, her Eyes do call,_ _And her vain Heart her Looks confess._ _She rallies this, to that she bow’d,_ _Was talking ever, laughing loud._ _On every side she makes advance,_ _And every where a Confidence;_ _She tells for Secrets all she knows,_ _And all to know she does pretend:_ _Beauty in Maids she treats as Foes:_ _But every handsome Youth as Friend._ _Scandal still passes off for Truth;_ _And Noise and Nonsense, Wit and Youth._ Coquet _all o’er, and every part,_ _Yet wanting Beauty, even of Art;_ _Herds with the ugly, and the old;_ _And plays the Critick on the rest:_ _Of Men, the bashful, and the bold,_ _Either, and all, by turns, likes best:_ _Even now, tho’ Youth be langisht, she_ _Sets up for Love and Gallantry._ This sort of Creature, _Damon_, is very dangerous; not that I fear you will squander away a Heart upon her, but your Hours; for in spight of you, she’ll detain you with a thousand Impertinencies, and eternal Tattle. She passes for a judging Wit; and there is nothing so troublesome as such a Pretender. She, perhaps, may get some knowledge of our Correspondence; and then, no doubt, will improve it to my Disadvantage. Possibly she may rail at me; that is her fashion by the way of friendly Speaking; and an aukward Commendation, the most effectual way of Defaming and Traducing. Perhaps she tells you, in a cold Tone, that you are a happy Man to be belov’d by me: That _Iris_ indeed is handsome, and she wonders she has no more Lovers; but the Men are not of her mind; if they were, you should have more Rivals. She commends my Face, but that I have blue Eyes, and ‘tis pity my Complexion is no better: My Shape but too much inclining to fat. Cries--She would charm infinitely with her Wit, but that she knows too well she is Mistress of it. And concludes,--But all together she is well enough.--Thus she runs on without giving you leave to edge in a word in my defence; and ever and anon crying up her own Conduct and Management: Tells you how she is opprest with Lovers, and fatigu’d with Addresses; and recommending her self, at every turn, with a perceivable Cunning: And all the while is jilting you of your good Opinion; which she would buy at the price of any body’s Repose, or her own Fame, tho’ but for the Vanity of adding to the number of her Lovers. When she sees a new Spark, the first thing she does, she enquires into his Estate; if she find it such as may (if the Coxcomb be well manag’d) supply her Vanity, she makes advances to him, and applies her self to those little Arts she usually makes use of to gain her Fools; and according to his Humour dresses and affects her own. But, _Damon_, since I point to no particular Person in this Character,