Classic Poem

Envious and foul disease, could there not be
One beauty in an age, and free from thee?
What did she worth thy spite? Were there not store
Of those that set by their false faces more
Than this did by her true? She never sought
Quarrel with Nature, or in balance brought
Art, her false servant; nor, for Sir Hugh Plat,
Was drawn to practise other hue, than that
Her own blood gave her: she ne'er had, nor hath
Any belief, in Madam Baud-bee's bath,
Or Turner's oil of Talc. Nor ever got
Spanish receipt, to make her teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? Thought'st thou in disgrace
Of beauty, so to nullify a face,
That heaven should make no more; or should amiss
Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruined this?
Ay, that thy aim was; but her fate prevailed:
And scorned, thou hast shown thy malice, but hast failed.