Sonnet XXXI

Ah why hath nature to so hard a hart,
Giuen so goodly giftes of beauties grace?
Whose pryde depraues each other better part,
And all those pretious ornaments deface.
Sith to all other beastes of bloody race,
A dreadfull countenaunce she giuen hath:
That with theyr terrour al the rest may chace,
And warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.
But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,
Through sweet allurement of her louely hew:
That she the better may in bloody bath,
Of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.
But did she know how ill these two accord,
Such cruelty she would haue soone abhord.

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