I cannot even be faithful to the past,
For, manlike, you deny it’s ever been.
And I must keep you curious to the last,
Else will you find some newer minikin.
I know the seven green withes will never hold
Against your strength, when once you try to break;
But I pretend belief in all you’ve told
While I am playing falsely for your sake.
Thus from my treason comes the paradox,
That when unfaithful to you, I am true.
My colors change as often as the phlox,
Its evening purple, in morning frost pale blue.
And if you ask my purpose, I’ll reply,
“Someone would be unfaithful, why not I?”