THE BEAUTY
O do not praise my beauty more.
In such word-wild degree,
And say I am one all eyes adore;
For these things harass me!
But do for ever softly say:
“From now unto the end
Come weal, come wanzing, come what may,
Dear, I will be your friend.”
I hate my beauty in the glass:
My beauty is not I:
I wear it: none cares whether, alas,
Its wearer live or die!
The inner I O care for, then,
Yea, me and what I am,
And shall be at the gray hour when
My cheek begins to clam.
“The Regent Street beauty, Miss Verrey, the Swiss confectioner's
daughter, whose personal attractions have been so mischievously exaggerated,
died of fever on Monday evening, brought on by the annoyance she had been for some time subject to.”
—London paper, October 1828.
