You yet have time to walk; and my _Watch_ foresaw you cou’d not refuse your Friends. You must to the _Park_, or to the _Mall_; for the Season is fair and inviting, and all the young Beauties love those Places too well, not to be there. ‘Tis there that a thousand Intrigues are carry’d on, and as many more design’d: ‘Tis there that every one is set out for Conquest; and who aim at nothing less than Hearts. Guard yours well, my _Damon_; and be not always admiring what you see. Do not, in passing by, sigh them silent Praises. Suffer not so much as a guilty Wish to approach your Thoughts, nor a heedful Glance to steal from your fine Eyes: Those are Regards you ought only to have for her you love. But oh! above all, have a care of what you say: You are not reproachable, if you should remain silent all the time of your Walk; nor would those that know you believe it the Effects of Dulness, but Melancholy. And if any of your Friends ask you, Why you are so? I will give you leave to sigh, and say-- The Mal-Content. _Ah! wonder not if I appear_ _Regardless of the Pleasures here;_ _Or that my Thoughts are thus confin’d_ _To the just Limits of my Mind._ _My Eyes take no delight to rove_ _O’er all the smiling Charmers of the Grove,_ _Since she is absent whom they love._ _Ask me not, Why the Flow’ry Spring,_ _Or the gay little Birds that sing,_ _Or the young Streams no more delight,_ _Or Shades and Arbours can’t invite?_ _Why the soft Murmurs of the Wind,_ _Within the thick-grown Groves confin’d,_ _No more my Soul transport, or cheer;_ _Since all that’s charming_--Iris, _is not here;_ _Nothing seems glorious, nothing fair._ _Then suffer me to wander thus,_ _With down-cast Eyes, and Arms across:_ _Let Beauty unregarded go;_ _The Trees and Flowers unheeded grow._ _Let purling Streams neglected glide;_ _With all the Spring’s adorning Pride._ _’.is_ Iris _only Soul can give_ _To the dull Shades, and Plains, and make ‘em thrive;_ _Nature and my last Joys retrieve._