Beauty is but a painted hell:
Aye me, aye me,
She wounds them that admire it,
She kills them that desire it.
Give her pride but fuel,
No fire is more cruel.

Pity from ev’ry heart is fled,
Aye me, aye me;
Since false desire could borrow
Tears of dissembled sorrow,
Constant vows turn truthless,
Love cruel, Beauty ruthless.

Sorrow can laugh, and Fury sing,
Aye me, aye me;
My raving griefs discover
I liv’d too true a lover:
The first step to madness
Is the excesse of sadness.

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