English poetry

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WHen I behold that beauties wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part;
Of natures skill the only complement,
I honor and admire the makers art.
But when I feele the bitter balefull smart,
Which her fayre eyes vnwares doe worke in mee:
That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart,
I thinke that I a new Pandora see.
Whom all the Gods in councell did agree,
Into this sinfull world from heauen to send:
That she to wicked men a scourge should bee,
For all their faults with which they did offend,
But since ye are my scourge I will intreat,
That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

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Poem Sonnet XXIIII - Edmund Spenser