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.