Born with the Vices of my kind,
 I should inconstant be;
Dear Celia , could I rambling find,
 More Beauty than in thee:
The rolling Surges of my Blood,
 By Virtue now grown low;
Should a new Show'r 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 Pow'r,
 This Constancy is due;
When Change itself can give no more,
 'Tis easy to be true.