I know thy forms are studied arts,
Thy subtil ways be narrow straits; 10
Thy courtesy but sudden starts,
And what thou call’st thy gifts, are baits.
I know too, though thou strut and paint,
Yet art thou both shrunk up and old;
That only fools make thee a saint, 15
And all thy good is to be sold.
I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toys and trifles, traps and snares,