Classic Poem

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,
A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud,
A brittle glass that's broken presently.
— A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
— Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
— So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,
— In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.