Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
Its very name a story tells
Of doubly dark inconstancy,
Love falser than a hundred hells.
Its face is often but a screen
To hide a devil's heart of guile,
Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
By winning looks of heartless wile.
Its laughing smile is but the gleam
That springs from dross of foulest make;
It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
Then leaves the trusting heart to break.
Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
I can not bear to hear the name;
For, oh! Too oft in it I see
A soul of falsehood and of shame!