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IN vaine I
seeke and sew to her for grace,
and doe myne humbled
hart before her poure:
the whiles her foot she in my
necke doth place,
and tread my life downe in the
lowly floure.
And yet the Lyon that is Lord of
power,
and reigneth ouer euery beast in field:
in his most pride disdeigneth to deuoure
the silly
lambe that to his might doth yield.
But she more
cruell and more saluage wylde,
then either Lyon or
the Lyonesse:
shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud
defylde,
but taketh glory in her cruelnesse.
Fayrer then fayrest let none euer say,
that ye were
blooded in a yeelded pray.
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