Since then, in all the Excellencies of Mind and Body (where no one Grace is wanting) you so resemble the All-perfect _Damon_, suffer me to dedicate this _Watch_ to You. It brings You nothing but Rules for Love; delicate as Your Thoughts, and innocent as Your Conversation. And possibly, ‘tis the only Vertue of the Mind, You are not perfectly Master of; the only noble Mystery of the Soul, You have not yet studied. And though they are Rules for every Hour, You will find, they will neither rob Heaven, nor Your Friends of ther Due; those so valuable Devoirs of Your Life; They will teach You Love; but Love, so pure, and so devout, that You may mix it, even with Your Religion; and I know, Your fine Mind can admit of no other. When ever the God enters there (fond and wanton as he is, full of Arts and Guiles) he will be reduc’d to that Native Innocency, that made him so ador’d, before inconstant Man corrupted his Divinity, and made him wild and wandring. How happy will _Iris’s_ Watch be, to inspire such a Heart! How honour’d under the Patronage of so excellent a Man! Whose Wit will credit, whose Goodness will defend it; and whose noble and vertuous Qualities so justly merit the Character _Iris_ has given _Damon_: And which is believed so very much your Due, by Sir, Your most Obliged, and Most Humble Servant, A. Behn. _To the Admir’d_ ASTREA. I Never mourn’d my Want of Wit, ‘till now; That where I do so much Devotion vow, Brightest _Astrea_, to your honour’d Name, Find my Endeavour will become my Shame. ‘Tis you alone, who have the Art, and Wit T’ involve those Praises in the Lines y’have writ, That we should give you, could we have the Sp’rite, Vigour, and Force, wherewith your self do write. Too mean are all th’ Applauses we can give: You in your self, and by your self, shall live; When all we write will only serve to shew, How much, in vain Attempt, we flag below. Some Hands write some things well; are elsewhere lame: But on all Theams, your Power is the same. Of Buskin, and of Sock, you know the Pace; And tread in both, with equal Skill and Grace, But when you write of Love, _Astrea_, then _Love_ dips his Arrows, where you wet your pen. Such charming Lines did never Paper grace; Soft, as your Sex; and smooth, as Beauty’s Face. And ‘tis your Province, that belongs to you: Men are so rude, they fright when they wou’d sue You teach us gentler Methods; such as are The fit and due Proceedings with the Fair.