HERE lie I, once a witty fair, Ill-loving and ill-loved; Whose heedless beauty was my snare, Whose wit my folly proved. Reader, should any curious stay To ask my luckless name, Tell them the grave that hides my clay Conceals me from my shame. Tell them I mourned for guilt of sin More than for pleasure spent: Tell them, whate'er my morn had been, My noon was penitent. |