You are deceiv’d in me, fair _Iris_, if you take me for one of those ordinary Glasses, that represent the Beauty only of the Body; I remark to you also the Beauties of the Soul: And all about you declares yours the finest that ever was formed; that you have a Wit that surprizes, and is always new: ‘Tis none of those that loses its Lustre when one considers it; the more we examine yours, the more adorable we find it. You say nothing that is not at once agreeable and solid; ‘tis always quick and ready, without Impertinence, that little Vanity of the Fair: who, when they know they have Wit, rarely manage it so, as not to abound in Talking; and think, that all they say must please, because luckily they sometimes chance to do so. But _Iris_ never speaks, but ’.is of use; and gives a Pleasure to all that hear her: She has the perfect Air of penetrating, even the most secret Thoughts. How often have you known, without being told, all that has past in _Damon’s_ Heart? For all great Wits are Prophets too. _Tell me; Oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess;_ _For you alone can tell my Love’s Success._ _The Lines in my dejected Face,_ _I fear, will lead you to no kind Result:_ _It is your own that you must trace;_ _Those of your Heart you must consult._ _’.is there my Fortune I must learn,_ _And all that_ Damon _does concern._ _I tell you that I love a Maid,_ _As bright as Heav’n, of Angel-hue;_ _The softest Nature ever made,_ _Whom I with Sighs and Vows pursue._ _Oh, tell me, charming Prophetess!_ _Shall I this lovely Maid possess?_ _A thousand Rivals do obstruct my Way;_ _A thousand Fears they do create:_ _They throng about her all the Day,_ _Whilst I at awful Distance wait._ _Say, Will the lovely Maid so fickle prove,_ _To give my Rivals Hope, as well as Love?_ _She has a thousand Charms of Wit,_ _With all the Beauty Heav’n e’er gave:_ _Oh! let her not make use of it,_ _To flatter me into the Slave._ _Oh! tell me Truth, to ease my Pain;_ _Say rather, I shall die by her Disdain._ _The MODESTY of_ IRIS.