LVIII
O beauty, siren! kept with Circe's rod;
The fairest good in seem but foulest ill;
The sweetest plague ordained for man by God,
The pleasing subject of presumptuous will;
Th' alluring object of unstayèd eyes;
Friended of all, but unto all a foe;
The dearest thing that any creature buys,
And vainest too, it serves but for a show;
In seem a heaven, and yet from bliss exiling;
Paying for truest service nought but pain;
Young men's undoing, young and old beguiling;
Man's greatest loss though thought his greatest gain!
True, that all this with pain enough I prove;
And yet most true, I will Fidessa love.
