The Only Fault's With Time; All Men

A Pretty Woman's Worth Some Pains To See, Nor Is She Spoiled, I Take It, If A Crown Completes The Forehead Pale And Tresses Pure.

A Face To Lose Youth For, To Occupy Age With The Dream Of, Meet Death With.

Still More Labyrinthine Buds The Rose.

What Youth Deemed Crystal, Age Finds Out Was Dew.

I, Painting From Myself And To Myself, Know What I Do, Am Unmoved By Men's Blame Or Their Praise Either.