To Idera wearing a Mask. A Song To Madam M— R—

WHY should hoodwink'd Nature die?
And blinded Beauty fade?
Grace, Innocence, and Virtue lie
Smother'd in Masquerade?

Let Cupid's Monarchy display
His Flags of White and Red,
Nor give the World just cause to say,
Sick of a Maidenhead.

Why should the Mountebanks lay claim
To th' Colours of your Skin?
'T may raise a scandal on your Name,
Thô I should think it sin.

Thô my Implicit Faith be strong
Invisibles to believe,
Thô I should think I did you wrong,
To say you can deceive.

Dispel those happy Clouds that kiss
Your Rising Sun unseen,
That strive to ravish all the Bliss,
And interpose a Screen.

Who would not at your Rays take fire?
T' Arabian Deserts flie,
And in a Spicy Nest expire,
And in a Fever die?

Pity a bleeding, wounded Hart,
Abandon'd by the Herd;
I'd die, but for my better part,
Life is to be preferr'd.

Let Venus boast her Master-piece,
Let all the World admire;
Let me alone the Prize possess,
Troy, Greece,—may be on fire.