And held it for a very silly sleight,
To make a perfect metal counterfeit,
Glad to disclaim herself, proud of an art
That makes the face a pandar to the heart.
Those be the painted moons, whose lights profane
Beauty's true Heaven, at full still in their wane;260
Those be the lapwing-faces that still cry,
"Here 'tis!" when that they vow is nothing nigh:
Base fools! when every moorish fool[61] can teach
That which men think the height of human reach.