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 "carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby Thou shouldst print more, nor let that copy die."

Remember, too, how soon Beauty forsakes itself. Its action is no stronger than a flower, and like a flower it lives and dies. Think of "the stormy gusts of winter's day," of the "barren edge of Death's eternal cold," and—

"ere thou be distilled, Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-killed."

Why, even flowers do not altogether die. When roses wither,

"Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made":

and you who are "my rose" should not pass away without leaving your form in Art. For Art has the very secret of joy.

"Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee."

You do not require the "bastard signs of fair," the painted face, the fantastic disguises of other actors: