To Amasia, still promising to Sing, but never performing

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.

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.

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.

Your every Breath does Musick bear,
A Song from you might kill;
I only now desire to hear
You sweetly thus deny me still