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.Ah, Nape, let her only bid me come;The page is large, which for that word has room.Her letter, like a conqu'ror's, shall be boundWith bays, for it with conquests shall be crown'd.
Elegy XII: He curses his letter because it was not answered.Ah, pity me, my friends! the cruel fairWill neither read my just complaint, nor hear.The billet-doux I sent her she return'd,And e'en to ope the tender letter scorn'd