Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/25

Rh

Keep your paints, To use upon your own fast withering cheek; Young blood is still the finest rouge, and locks One's own far better than the high-pil'd plaits, Shorn from the gaol imprison'd, mad or dead!

I am not Avis, a mere girl like you,

But many a man, aye, and the most of men,

Prefer a woman form'd to a raw girl.

Well, I have heard it oft, and now believe God's good to women, that they never mark Their long desir'd beauty's slow decay! Once lovely still is lovely, to the eyes That peer into the mirror at herself, And shall be, till the dim eyes see no more. Her new sheep's teeth more even than her own,