But, _Damon_, I know all Lovers are naturally Flatterers, tho’ they do not think so themselves; because every one makes a Sense of Beauty according to his own Fancy. But perhaps you will say in your own defence, That ‘tis not Flattery to say an unbeautiful Woman is beautiful, if he that says so believes she is so. I should be content to acquit you of the first, provided you allow me the last: And if I appear charming in _Damon’s_ eyes, I am not fond of the Approbation of any other. ‘Tis enough the World thinks me not altogether disagreeable, to justify his Choice; but let your good Opinion give what Increase it pleases to my Beauty, tho’ your Approbation give me a Pleasure, it shall not a Vanity; and I am contented that _Damon_ should think me a Beauty, without my believing I am one. ‘Tis not to draw new Assurances, and new Vows from you, that I speak this; though Tales of Love are the only ones we desire to hear often told, and which never tire the Hearers if addrest to themselves. But ‘tis not to this end I now seem to doubt what you say to my advantage: No, my Heart knows no Disguise, nor can dissemble one Thought of it to _Damon_; ‘tis all sincere, and honest as his Wish: ‘Tis therefore it tells you, it does not credit every thing you say; tho’ I believe you say abundance of Truths in a great part of my Character. But when you advance to that, which my own Sense, my Judgment, or my Glass cannot persuade me to believe, you must give me leave either to believe you think me vain enough to credit you, or pleas’d that your Sentiments and mine are differing in this point. But I doubt I may rather reply in some Verses, a Friend of yours and mine sent to a Person she thought had but indifferent Sentiments for her; yet, who nevertheless flatter’d her, because he imagin’d she had a very great Esteem for him. She is a Woman that, you know, naturally hates Flattery: On the other side she was extremely dissatisfy’d, and uneasy at his Opinion of his being more in her favour than she desir’d he should believe. So that one Night having left her full of Pride and Anger, she next Morning sent him these Verses, instead of a _Billetdoux_. The Defiance. _By Heaven ‘tis false, I am not vain;_ _And rather would the Subject be_ _Of your Indifference, or Disdain,_ _Than Wit or Raillery._ _Take back the trifling Praise you give,_ _And pass it on some easier Fool,_ _Who may the injuring Wit believe,_ _That turns her into ridicule._ _Tell her, she’s witty, fair and gay,_ _With all the Charms that can subdue:_ _Perhaps she’ll credit what you say;_ _But curse me if I do._ _If your Diversion you design,_ _On my Good-nature you have prest:_ _Or if you do intend it mine,_ _You have mistook the Jest._ Philander, _fly that guilty Art:_ _Your charming facile Wit will find,_ _It cannot play on any Heart,_ _That is sincere and kind._