The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace,
    The smoke of hell, the monster called pain,
    Long shamed to be accursed in every place
    By them who of his rude resort complain,
  Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught       	    5 
    His ugly evil in others' good to hide,
    Late harbors in her face, whom nature wrought
    As treasure house where her best gifts do bide.
  And so, by privilege of sacred seat,
    A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns,     	    10
    He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great,
    Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains.
       Ah, saucy pain, let not thy error last;
       More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.