_Then with the Stream he holds Discourse:_ _O thou that bend’st thy liquid Force_ _To lovely_ Thames! _upon whose Shore_ _The Maid resides whom I adore!_ _My Tears of Love upon thy Surface bear:_ _And if upon thy Banks thou seest my Fair:_ _In all thy softest Murmurs sing,_ From _Damon_ I this Present bring; My e’ery Curl contains a Tear! _Then at her Feet thy Tribute pay:_ _But haste, O happy Stream! away;_ _Lest charm’d too much, thou shouldst for ever stay._ _And thou, Oh gentle, murm’ring Breeze!_ _That plays in Air, and wantons with the Trees;_ _On thy young Wings, where gilded Sun-beams play,_ _To_ Iris _my soft Sighs convey,_ _Still as they rise, each Minute of the Day:_ _But whisper gently in her Ear;_ _Let not the ruder Winds thy Message bear,_ _Nor ruffle one dear Curl of her bright Hair._ _Oh! touch her Cheeks with sacred Reverence,_ _And stay not gazing on her lovely Eyes!_ _But if thou bear’st her rosy Breath from thence,_ _’.is Incense of that Excellence,_ _That as thou mount’st, ‘twill perfume all the Skies._ IRIS_’. COMPLEXION_. Say what you will, I am confident, if you will confess your Heart, you are, every time you view your self in me, surpris’d at the Beauty of your Complexion; and will secretly own, you never saw any thing so fair. I am not the first Glass, by a thousand, that has assur’d you of this. If you will not believe me, ask _Damon_; he tells it you every Day, but that Truth from him offends you: and because he loves too much, you think his Judgment too little; and since this is so perfect, that must be defective. But ‘tis most certain your Complexion is infinitely fine, your Skin soft and smooth as polisht Wax, or Ivory, extreamely white and clear; tho’ if any body speaks but of your Beauty, an agreeable Blush casts it self all over your Face, and gives you a thousand new Graces. _And then two Flowers newly born._ _Shine in your Heav’nly Face;_ _The Rose that blushes in the Morn,_ _Usurps the Lilly’s place:_ _Sometimes the Lilly does prevail._ _And makes the gen’rous Crimson pale._ IRIS_’. HAIR_. Oh, the beautiful Hair of _Iris_! it seems as if Nature had crown’d you with a great quantity of lovely fair brown Hair, to make us know that you were born to rule, and to repair the Faults of Fortune that has not given you a Diadem: And do not bewail the Want of that (so much your Merit’s due) since Heaven has so gloriously recompensed you with what gains more admiring Slaves.