XIII. Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good； A shining
gloss1 that vadeth suddenly； A flower that dies when first it gins to bud； A
brittle2 glass that's broken presently： A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found, As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh, As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground, As broken glass no cement can redress3, So beauty blemish'd once's for ever lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.
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