They're lothsome too, by this Deformitee. For good, and well, must in our actions meete; Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet. But beauties other second Element, Colour, and lustre now, is as neere spent. 340 And had the world his just proportion, Were it a ring still, yet the stone is gone. As a compassionate Turcoyse which doth tell By looking pale, the wearer is not well, As gold falls sicke being stung with Mercury, 345 All the worlds parts of such complexion bee. When nature was most busie, the first weeke, Swadling the new borne earth, God seem'd to like That she should sport her selfe sometimes, and play, To mingle, and vary colours every day: 350 And then, as though shee could not make inow, Himselfe his various Rainbow did allow. Sight is the noblest sense of any one, Yet sight hath only colour to feed on, And colour is decai'd: summers robe growes 355 Duskie, and like an oft dyed garment showes. Our blushing red, which us'd in cheekes to spred, Is inward sunke, and only our soules are red. Perchance the world might have recovered, If she whom we lament had not beene dead: 360 But shee, in whom all white, and red, and blew (Beauties ingredients) voluntary grew, As in an unvext Paradise; from whom Did all things verdure, and their lustre come, Whose composition was miraculous, 365 Being all colour, all Diaphanous, (For Ayre, and Fire but thick grosse bodies were, And liveliest stones but drowsie, and pale to her,) Shee, shee, is dead; shee's dead: when thou know'st this, Thou knowst how wan a Ghost this our world is: 370 And learn'st thus much by our Anatomie, That it should more affright, then pleasure thee. And that, since all faire colour then did sinke, 'Tis now but wicked vanitie, to thinke [Sidenote: _Weaknesse in the want of correspondence of heaven and earth._] To colour vicious deeds with good pretence, 375 Or with bought colors to illude mens sense. Nor in ought more this worlds decay appeares, Then that her influence the heav'n forbeares, Or that the Elements doe not feele this, The father, or the mother barren is. 380 The cloudes conceive not raine, or doe not powre, In the due birth time, downe the balmy showre; Th'Ayre doth not motherly sit on the earth, To hatch her seasons, and give all things birth; Spring-times were common cradles, but are tombes; 385 And false-conceptions fill the generall wombes; Th'Ayre showes such Meteors, as none can see, Not only what they meane, but what they bee; Earth such new wormes, as would have troubled much Th'Ægyptian _Mages_ to have made more such. 390 What Artist now dares boast that he can bring