Classic Poem

Madam, why so fair? why so foul?
What can no lesse intrap a soul?
Art acts adultery in your skin:
When hell's without, ah what's within!
Who would dote on painted blisse,
Which melts away with every kisse?
Or who would tie his love to hair?
Make love like it the sport of air.
The moon hath spots, and so have you;
She emblems change, and you'l so too.
Or you these foils for beauty wear,
'Cause Venus some feign, moles made fair,
Who gain a love, by seeming fair,
Their love, and beauty like fate share:
Love shifts, when you but shift your face:
Or outcomes, when you teeth displace:
Puppits which move by phancies wire,
Let th' rich in fooleries desire:
Think you each hair in curls a hook;
Baited with powder fools are took.
To me the powd'ring of the hair
Makes you seem aged, and not fair.
Or like a sheeps-head's wooll doth show,
Who mates you, for a Ramme must go.
Black patches do betray defects:
Beauty's best seen in her neglects.
Cupid in black in your face spread,
Mourns there for love and beauty dead.
And your half Moon in this black veil,
Shews you can change, though lustre fail.
Or think you here Egyptians be,
For th' spotted Calf may worship thee?
An Ape is, though no Apis shown,
Without your spots can make you one.
I search no pedigrees, nor care
Who ow'd your breath, or teeth, or hair:
Yet though in breath we Saba meet;
She smell's not well, smells alwayes sweet.
Though paint and plaistring may be gins
To passengers, tempt to rotten Inns.
Ceruse nor Fucus e're can move,
Where Religion fixes love.
'Tis neither marble, gold, nor paint,
But the Adorer makes the Saint.