Lovers, if you wou’d gain a Heart,
Of Damon learn to win the Prize;
He’ll shew you all its tend’rest part,
And where its greatest Danger lies;
The Magazine of its Disdain,
Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain.
If present, do but little say;
Enough the silent Lover speaks:
But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day;
Such Rhet’rick more than Language takes.
For Words the dullest way do move;
And utter’d more to shew your Wit than Love.
Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart;
Its Story is, for Words, too delicate.
Souls thus exchange, and thus impart,
And all their Secrets can relate.
A Tear, a broken Sigh, she’ll understand;
Or the soft trembling Pressings of the Hand.
Or if your Pain must be in Words exprest,
Let ’em fall gently, unassur’d and slow;
And where they fail, your Looks may tell the rest:
Thus Damon spoke, and I was conquer’d so.
The witty Talker has mistook his Art;
The modest Lover only charms the Heart.
Thus, while all day you gazing sit,
And fear to speak, and fear your Fate,
You more Advantages by Silence get,
Than the gay forward Youth with all his Prate.
Let him be silent here; but when away,
Whatever Love can dictate, let him say.
There let the bashful Soul unveil,
And give a loose to Love and Truth:
Let him improve the amorous Tale,
With all the Force of Words, and Fire of Youth:
There all, and any thing let him express;
Too long he cannot write, too much confess.