If how I do, she asks, do thou reply,For the dear night, and night's dear joys, I die.Tell her the letter will the rest explain,And does my soul, and all its hopes contain.But time, while I am speaking, flies: be sureTo give the billet in a leisure hour:Don't be content with her imperfect view,But make her, when she has it, read it through.I charge thee, as she reads, observe her eyes,Catch, if thou canst, her gentle looks and sighs;As these are sure presages of my joy,So frowns and low'rs my flattering hopes destroy.Pray her, when she has read it, to inditeAn answer, and a long epistle write.I hate a billet, where at once I viewA page all empty, but a line or two.Let her without a margin fill it up,And crowd it from the bottom to the top.But why should I her pretty fingers tire?A word's enough, and all that I desire.