Fame is not a tender master,
Brings it fortune and disaster;
Beauty molded, hallowed, nursed,
Mixes blessings for the cursed.

Kisses sweet should do no harm
Nor wound the cherished or alarm,
Pricks them love with Eros’ dart;
Wounds the bearer to the heart.

The fairest mantle that it knew,
A frenzied scorpion slashes through,
Her pointed needle bends to sting,
The self that wields it’s poisoning.

Though born of air, earth or foam,
On wing, foot, or sail at home,
In all the heavens it is known,
That earthly beauty is on loan.
J.T. Rodolico


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