No maid than thee can boast a quicker eye,Nor sooner the sour husband's coming spy.Here, Nape, take this billet-doux, and bearMy soul's soft wishes to the absent fair.If I can guess, thy heart is not of flint,Nor is there the least vein of iron in't;I something in thy looks and manners seeAbove the rudeness of thy low degree;A softer turn, to pity more inclined,Than vulgar souls, a more complacent mind;Thou feel'st, if I can guess, an equal flame,And thine and my distemper is the same.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.