by Sir John Suckling
DOST see how unregarded now
That piece of beauty passes ?
There was a time when I did vow
To that alone ;
But mark the fate of faces ;
The red and white works now no more on me
Than if it could not charm, or I not see.
And yet the face continues good,
And I have still desires,
Am still the selfsame flesh and blood,
As apt to melt
And suffer from those fires ;
O ! some kind power unriddle where it lies,
Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes ?
She every day her man does kill,
And I as often die ;
Neither her power, then, nor my will
Can questioned be,
What is the mystery ?
Sure Beauty's empires, like to greater states,
Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.
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