So gay by well-plac'd lights, and distance made;
False coin, and which th' impostor cheats us still;
The stamp and colour good, but metal ill!
Which light, or base, we find when we
Weigh by enjoyment and examine thee!
For though thy being be but show,
'Tis chiefly night which men to thee allow:
And chuse t'enjoy thee, when thou least art thou.

III.

Beauty, thou active, passive ill!
Which dy'st thy self as fast as thou dost kill!
Thou Tulip, who thy stock in paint dost waste,
Neither for physic good, nor smell, nor taste.
Beauty, whose flames but meteors are,
Short-liv'd and low, though thou would'st seem a star,
Who dar'st not thine own home descry,
Pretending to dwell richly in the eye,
When thou, alas, dost in the fancy lye.

IV.

Beauty, whose conquests still are made
O'er hearts by cowards kept, or else betray'd;
Weak victor! who thy self destroy'd must be
When sickness, storms, or time besieges thee!
Thou unwholesome thaw to frozen age!
Thou strong wine, which youths fever dost enrage,
Thou tyrant which leav'st no man free!