Tell me, dear men: have you e’er known a beaut

That blinds the eye in ways light can’t refute?

Such a perfection rests in starry passion

That strikes to sleep the glare of ugliness

That sharpens itself to critical fashion.

Tis eyes deceived that mayth perceive a visage

As vividly divine or hideous

To glamor’s glory, coined like golden prisage

To hounds that hunger viands while invidious.

But fools refuse believing that such harmony

Is beauty’s light, and only beauty’s bliss

Is found within without another’s glee.

Let all these written words give way in spell

With ancient romance spoken: tu es belle.


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