SONG IX.
The unwilling Inconstant.
I
Tho' she's so much for Beauty fam'd,
That Age is with her Smiles enflam'd;
Yet by some more resistless Art,
That does unseen its Force impart,
You raze her Image from my Heart,
Which nothing, nothing else but Death could part.
II
O tell me quickly, charming Maid,
By what new Witchcraft I'm betray'd?
Since she I've sworn to Love is true,
Nor only that but beauteous too,
I shou'd a strange Injustice do
To give the Heart, so justly hers, to you.
III
Try then, thou who without Controul
Hast shot thy Form into my Soul
(Whose Eyes still conquer with a View)
O try (tho 'twill be hard to do)
Yet try to make me hate thee too;
I care not if I'm wretched so I'm true.
