You treat me so, my dear,
with praises and honey'd lips.
My mind, eyes, those traits thrown by the mirror
are lauded -- all -- by you
through homage well-intoned, and often.
For what? I know not, but
know only that you should soften --
your admirations, worthy meant,
transform into quite different matters
when through clasped hands and close word
they assume the forms of flatters.
For, Mortal Man, I plead you this,
pierce the bright charms and other art
made not to deceive, no,
but to spare your most valued heart.
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