_A thousand Loves do listen when you speak,_ _And catch each Accent as it flies:_ _Rich flowing Wit, whene’er you Silence break,_ _Flows from your Tongue, and sparkles in your Eyes._ _Whether you talk, or silent are,_ _Your Lips immortal Beauties wear._ _The NECK of_ IRIS. All your Modesty, all your nice Care, cannot hide the ravishing Beauties of your Neck; we must see it, coy as you are; and see it the whitest, and finest shaped, that ever was form’d. Oh! why will you cover it? You know all handsome Things would be seen. And Oh! how often have you made your Lovers envy your Scarf, or any thing that hides so fine an Object from their Sight. _Damon_ himself complains of your too nice Severity. Pray do not hide it so carefully. See how perfectly turn’d it is! with small blue Veins, wand’ring and ranging here and there, like little Rivulets, that wanton o’er the flowery Meads! See how the round white rising Breasts heave with every Breath, as if they disdain’d to be confin’d to a Covering; and repel the malicious Cloud that would obscure their Brightness! _Fain I would have leave to tell_ _The Charms that on your Bosom dwell;_ _Describe it like some flow’ry Field,_ _That does ten thousand Pleasures yield;_ _A thousand gliding Springs and Groves;_ _All Receptacles for Loves:_ _But Oh! what_ Iris _hides, must be_ _Ever sacred kept by me._ _The ARMS and HANDS of_ IRIS. I shall not be put to much trouble to shew you your Hands and Arms, because you may view them without my Help; and you are very unjust, if you have not admir’d ‘em a thousand times. The beautiful Colour and Proportion of your Arm is unimitable, and your Hand is dazzling, fine, small, and plump; long-pointed Fingers delicately turned; dimpled on the snowy out-side, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft Palm. Oh _Iris_! nothing equals your fair Hand; that Hand, of which _Love_ so often makes such use to draw his Bow, when he would send the Arrow home with more Success; and which irresistibly wounds those, who possibly have not yet seen your Eyes: And when you have been veil’d, that lovely Hand has gain’d you a thousand Adorers. And I have heard _Damon_ say, _Without the Aid of more Beauties, that alone had been sufficient to have made an absolute Conquest, o’er his Soul_. And he has often vow’d, _It never toucht him but it made his Blood run with little irregular Motions in his Veins, his Breath beat short and double, his Blushes rise, and his very Soul dance_. _Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize_ _’.ove any one peculiar Grace,_ _While he is dying for the Eyes_ _And doating on the lovely Face!_ _The Unconsid’ring little knows,_ _How much he to this Beauty owes._