Born with the Vices of my kind, I were Inconstant too; Dear @3Cynthia@1, could I rambling find More Beauty than in you. The rowling Surges of my Blood, By Virtue now ebb'd low; Should a new Shower encrease the Flood, Too soon would overflow. But Frailty when thy Face I see, Does modestly retire; Uncommon must her Graces be, Whose look can bound desire. Not to my Virtue, but thy Power, This Constancy is due; When change it self can give no more, 'Tis easie to be true. |