Song. (Number 3)

Obscure the Glories of your Eyes,
Or give us leave to Love:
To see, and not desire that Prize,
Impossible must prove:
Look not so nicely(1) on your Slave,
That at your Feet doth bow,
When such enticing Looks you gave,
To tempt the Fool so low.
Coy wanton Nymph, though you forbid
Your Slaves to seek Redress,
And force us keep our Torture hid,
Your Guilt is ne'er the less.
It can not sure be Pity found,
But barb'rous Cruelty,
When you with Pleasure give a Wound
So deep, you start(2) to see.