Vanity, thy cold and wanton caress
does little for me in career of fame;
for ’tis my own fate I now address,
and bid thee not of fortune’s name.
Vanity, thy face bleeds of idolatry,
as in winter, filling empty hallows;
cast away thy vigorous mediocrity,
let it disperse among the shallows.
Vanity, cover thy scars of the morrow,
for beauty left to me, long attended;
bid my heart instead cast off sorrow,
this wilding breath as recommended.
Vanity, I have no appetite for thy kiss,
I bear no facade, no wealth to impose;
let my heart cleanse thy sullen remiss,
and let me lie still, without vain repose.