The Incredulous

I'll ne'er believe for Strephon's sake
That Love (whate'er its fond pretences be),
Is not a slave to mutability.
The Moon and that alike of change partake:
Tears are weak, and cannot bind,
Vows, alas! but empty wind:
The greatest art that Nature gave
To th' amorous hypocrite to make him kind,
Long ere he dies will take its leave.
Had you but seen, as I have done,
Strephon's tears, and heard his moan,
How pale his cheek, how dim his eye,
As if with Chloris he resolv'd to die;
And when her spotless soul was fled
Heard his amazing praises of the dead;
Yet in a very little time address
His flame t' another Shepherdess,
In a few days giving his love the lie,
You'd be as great an infidel as I.