The Fate of Beauty
OLD Age to Beauty doth more fatal prove
Than Death in Beauty's bloom and blossoming,
Which, snatching loveliness from arms of love,
Sets all the world a moment sorrowing.
That, like a subtle forger, whose base art
Defiles, defaces, desecrates at will,
And leaving all, yet changes every part,
And makes all valueless with knavish skill;—
This, like a thief who steals a diadem,
But, knowing not to change the treasure's worth,
In guilty haste hides deep the radiant gem,
A flawless jewel still, beneath the earth:—
And yet, 'twixt this and that, how hard to say,
Which better is—swift death or slow decay?
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