To Amasia, still promising to Sing, but never performing.
1
Amasia
wrongs me of my Song,
Yet is not much to blame,
She knows my fate hangs on her Tongue,
She knows her breath would spread my flame.
2
With sounds as pleasing as the Spheres,
The lovely Fair denies,
To Charm my Soul into my Ears,
And sing the triumphs of her Eyes.
3
Mean tho' she thinks the prize she won,
Her Slave not worthy of that Grace,
Yet knows by what he was undone,
An Angel's Voice, an Angel's Face.
4
Your every Breath does Musick bear,
A Song from you might kill;
I only now desire to hear
You sweetly thus deny me still.