Blush not, ye Fair, to own me, but be wise,

Nor turn from sad Mortality your Eyes:

Fame says, and Fame alone can tell how true,

I once was lovely and belov'd like you.

Where are my Vot'ries? where my Flatt'rers now?

Fled with the Subject of each Lover's Vow.

Adieu! the Roses red, and Lillies white;

Adieu! those Eyes that made the Darkness Light:

No more, alas! that coral Lip is seen,

Nor longer breathes the fragrant Gale between.

Turn from your Mirrour, and behold in me

At once what Thousands can't or dare not see;

Unvarnish'd I the real Truths impart,

Nor here am plac'd but to direct the Heart.

Survey me well, ye Fair ones, and believe,

The Grave may terrify, but can't deceive.

On Beauty's fragil State no more depend,

Here Youth and Beauty, Age and Sorrow end:

Here drops the Mask; here shuts the final Scene;

Nor differs grave threescore from gay fifteen:

All press alike to that same Goal the Tomb,

Where wrinkled Laura smiles at Chloe's Bloom.

When Coxcombs flatter, and when Fools adore,

Learn here the Lesson to be vain no more:

Yet Virtue still against Decay can arm,

And even lend Mortality a Charm.