_Where you shall see what ‘tis enslaves the Soul;_ _Where e’ery Feature, e’ery Look combines:_ _When the adorning Air, o’er all the whole,_ _To so much Wit, and so nice Virtue joins._ _Where the_ Belle Taille_, and Motion still afford_ _Graces to be eternally adored._ But I will be silent now, and let your Glass speak. IRIS’s _LOOKING-GLASS_. _Damon_ (Oh charming _Iris_!) has given me to you, that you may sometimes give your self the Trouble, and me the Honour of consulting me in the great and weighty Affairs of Beauty. I am, my adorable Mistress! a faithful Glass; and you ought to believe all I say to you. _The SHAPE of_ IRIS. I must begin with your Shape, and tell you without Flattery, ‘tis the finest in the World, and gives Love and Admiration to all that see you. Pray observe how free and easy it is, without Constraint, Stiffness, or Affectation; those mistaken Graces of the Fantastick, and the Formal, who give themselves pain to shew their Will to please, and whose Dressing makes the greatest part of its Fineness, when they are more oblig’d to the Taylor than to Nature; who add or diminish, as occasion serves, to form a Grace, where Heaven never gave it: And while they remain on this Wreck of Pride, they are eternally uneasy, without pleasing any body. _Iris_, I have seen a Woman of your Acquaintance, who, having a greater Opinion of her own Person than any body else, has screw’d her Body into so fine a Form (as she calls it) that she dares no more stir a Hand, lift up an Arm, or turn her Head aside, than if, for the Sin of such a Disorder, she were to be turn’d into a Pillar of Salt; the less stiff and fix’d Statue of the two. Nay, she dares not speak or smile, lest she should put her Face out of that Order she had set it in her Glass, when she last look’d on her self: And is all over such a _Lady Nice_ (excepting in her Conversation) that ever made a ridiculous Figure. And there are many Ladies more, but too much tainted with that nauseous Formality, that old-fashion’d Vice: But _Iris_, the charming, the all-perfect _Iris_, has nothing in her whole Form that is not free, natural, and easy; and whose every Motion cannot but please extremely; and which has not given _Damon_ a thousand Rivals. Damon, _the young, the am’rous, and the true,_ _Who sighs incessantly for you;_ _Whose whole Delight, now you are gone,_ _Is to retire to Shades alone,_ _And to the Echoes make his moan._ _By purling Streams the wishing Youth is laid,_ _Still sighing_ Iris! _lovely charming Maid!_ _See, in thy Absence, how thy Lover dies!_ _While to his Sighs the Echo still replies._