Stretch out my Arm all o'er th' inconstant stain,And then cleave down her treach'rous limbs in twaiThe greatest plagues Invention e'er cou'd ind,Is not sufficient for th' inconstant Mind.I think I have o'er-come my Passion quite,And cou'd not love, although 'twere in despight.As for the Man who must enjoy my room,He'll soon be partner in my wretched doom;He by her Faith, alas, no more will find,Than when she swore to me to prove most kind.Therefore I'll leave her, and esteem her less;And in my self both joy and acquiesce.But oh, my Heart, there's something moves there still,Sure 'tis the vigour of unbounded Will.Too much, I fear, my Fetters are not gone,Or I at least again must put them on.Methinks I feel my Heart is not got free,Nor all my Passions set at liberty,From the bright glances of her am'rous Eye.Down Rebel-love, and hide thy boyish Head,I'm too much Man to hear thy follies plead:Go seek some other Breast of lower note;Go make some Old decrepit Cuckold dote:0