The curl'd luxuriance of your soft, dark hair
Its own bewitching wreath,
And perfect mouth that shows, in smiles too rare,
The radiant little teeth.
You cannot live on dances and delights,
Or fêtes by day and dance-music by nights.
Time foots it fleeter far
Than all the surging crowd your beauty smites
Like some coruscant star.
The ruthless social dragon will not spare