Lviii

O beauty, siren! kept with Circe's rod; The fairest good in seem but foulest ill; The sweetest plague ordained for man by God, The pleasing subject of presumptuous will; Th' alluring object of unstayèd eyes; Friended of all, but unto all a foe; The dearest thing that any creature buys, And vainest too, it serves but for a show; In seem a heaven, and yet from bliss exiling; Paying for truest service nought but pain; Young men's undoing, young and old beguiling; Man's greatest loss though thought his greatest gain! True, that all this with pain enough I prove; And yet most true, I will Fidessa love.