1 Beauty is but a painted hell,
Aye me, aye me,
Shee wounds them that admire it,
Shee kils them that desire it.
Giue her pride but fuell,
No fire is more cruell.
2 Pittie from eu'ry heart is fled,
Aye me, aye me,
Since false desire could borrow
Teares of dissembled sorrow,
Constant vowes turn truthlesse,
Loue cruell, Beauty ruthlesse.
3 Sorrow can laugh, and Fury sing,
Aye me, aye me;
My rauing griefes discouer
I liu'd too true a louer :
The first step to madnesse
Is the excesse of sadnesse.
Close
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer
www.harald-lillmeyer.kulturserver.de