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.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer