Death of Beauty

Now thou art gone, the fairy rose is fled,
That erst gay Fancy's garden did adorn.
Thine was the dew on which her folly fed,
The sun by which she glittered in the morn.
Now thou art gone, her pride is withered;
In dress of common weeds she doth array,
And vanity neglects her in its play.
Thou wert the very index of her praise,
Her borrowed bloom was kindled from thy rays:
Like dancing insects that the sun allures,
She little heeded it was gained from thee.
Vain joys! what are they now their sun's away?
What! but poor shadows, that blank night obscures,
As the grave hides what would dishonoured be.