Beauty Is But A Painted Hell

Beauty is but a painted hell;
        Aye me, Aye me,
    Shee wounds them that admire it,
    Shee kils them that desire it.
    Give her pride but fuell,
    No fire is more cruell.

Pittie from ev'ry heart is fled:
        Aye me, aye me,
    Since false desire could borrow
    Teares of dissembled sorrow,
    Constant vows turn truthlesse,
    Love cruele, Beauty ruthlesse.

Sorrow can laugh, and Fury sing:
        Aye me, aye me,
    My raving griefes discover
    I liv'd too true a lover:
    The first step to madnesse
    Is the excesse of sadnesse.