_That, when the Lover absent is,_ _Informs him of his Mistress’ Heart;_ _’.is that which gives him all his Bliss,_ _When dear Love-Secrets ‘twill impart,_ _That plights the Faith the Maid bestows;_ _And that confirms the tim’rous Vows._ _’.is that betrays the Tenderness,_ _Which the too bashful Tongue denies:_ _’.is that which does the Heart confess,_ _And spares the Language of the Eyes._ _’.is that which Treasure gives so vast;_ _Ev’n Iris ‘twill to Damon give at last._ _The GRACE and AIR of_ IRIS. ’.is I alone, O charming Maid! that can shew you that noble part of your Beauty: That generous Air that adorns all your lovely Person, and renders every Motion and Action perfectly adorable. With what a Grace you walk!--How free, how easy, and how unaffected! See how you move!--for only here you can see it. _Damon_ has told you a thousand times, that never any Mortal had so glorious an Air: but he cou’d not half describe it, nor would you credit even what he said; but with a careless Smile pass it off for the Flattery of a Lover. But here behold, and be convinc’d, and know, no part of your Beauty can charm more than this. O _Iris_! confess, Love has adorn’d you with all his Art and Care. Your Beauties are the Themes of all the Muses; who tell you in daily Songs, that the Graces themselves have not more than _Iris_. And one may truly say, that you alone know how to join the Ornaments and Dress with Beauty; and you are still adorn’d, as if that Shape and Air had a peculiar Art to make all Things appear gay and fine. Oh! how well drest you are! How every Thing becomes you! Never singular, never gawdy; but always suiting with your Quality. _Oh! how that Negligence becomes your Air!_ _That careless Flowing of your Hair,_ _That plays about with wanton Grace,_ _With every Motion of your Face:_ _Disdaining all that dull Formality,_ _That dares not move the Lip, or Eye,_ _But at some fancy’d Grace’s cost;_ _And think, with it, at least, a Lover lost._ _But the unlucky Minute to reclaim,_ } _And ease the Coquet of her Pain,_ } _The Pocket-Glass adjusts the Face again:_ } _Re-sets the Mouth, and languishes the Eyes;_ _And thinks, the Spark that ogles that way--dies._ _Of_ _Iris learn, Oh ye mistaken Fair!_ _To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air:_ _Let easy Nature all the Bus’ness do,_ _She can the softest Graces shew;_ _Which Art but turns to ridicule,_ _And where there’s none serves but to shew the Fool._ _In_ Iris _you all Graces find;_ _Charms without Art, a Motion unconfin’d;_ _Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks;_ _And without Affectation, moves and walks._ _Beauties so perfect ne’er were seen:_ _O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by_ Iris’ _Mein._ _The DISCRETION of_ IRIS.