The unwilling Inconstant

Though She's so much by all admir'd,
That ev'n cold Age is with her presence fir'd;
Yet, by some more Resistless Art,
You raze her Image from my heart,
Which nothing, nothing else but Death could part!

Say quickly (O enchanting Maid!)
By what strange witchcraft I am thus betray'd?
Since She to whom I've sworn is true,
I shou'd a high Injustice do,
To place what only she deserves, on you.

O try, thou who, without controul,
Hast shot thy glorious Form into my Soul,
Whose Eyes as soon as seen subdue,
O try to make me hate thee too;
But that, alas! is what you cannot do.