Alas, it is too late! I can no more
Love now than I have loved before:
My Flora, 'tis my fate, not I;
And what you call contempt is destiny.
I am no monster, sure: I cannot show5
Two hearts; one I already owe;
And I have bound myself with oaths, and vowed
Oft'ner, I fear, than Heaven hath e'er allowed,
That faces now should work no more on me,
Than if they could not charm, or I not see.10
And shall I break them? shall I think you can
Love, if I could, so foul a perjur'd man?
O no, 'tis equally impossible that I
Should love again, or you love perjury.