By beautie blas’d like torch of twinckling starre, A lively lamp that lends darke world some light, Faire Phœbus beames scarse reacheth halfe so farre As did the rayes of my rare beautie bright: As summer’s day exceedes blacke winter’s night, So _Shore’s_ wive’s face made foule _Brownetta_ blush, As pearle staynes pitch, or gold surmounts a rush. 12.* The damaske rose or _Rosamond_ the faire, That _Henry_ held as deere as jewells be, Who was kept close in cage from open ayre, For beautie’s boast could scarse compare with me: The kindly buds, and blosomes of brave tree, With white and red and deckt my cheekes so fine, There stoode two balles, like drops of claret wine. 13.* The beaten snow, nor lily in the field, No whiter sure then naked necke and hand: My lookes had force to make a lyon yeld, And at my forme in gase a world would stand: My body small, fram’d finely to be span’d, As though dame _Kind_ had sworne, in solemne sort, To shrowd herselfe in my faire forme and port. 14.* No part amisse, when nature tooke such care To set me out, as nought should be awry, To fornish forth, in due proportion rare, A peece of worke should please a prince’s eye: O would to God, that boast might prove a lie! For pride youth tooke in beautie’s borrowde trash, Gave age a whippe, and left me in the lash. 15. My shape, some sayde, was seemely to ech sight, My countenaunce did shew a sober grace, Mine eyes in lookes were neuer proued light, My tongue in words was[1976] chast in euery case: Mine eares were deafe and would no louers place, Saue that, alas, a prince did blot my browe, Loe, there the strong did make the weake to bowe. 16. The maiesty that kings to people beare, The stately port, the awefull cheere they showe, Doth make the meane to shrinke and couch for feare, Like as the hounde that doth his maister knowe: What then? since I was made vnto the bowe, There is no cloake can serue to hide my fault: For I agreede the fort hee should assault. 17. The eagle’s force subdues ech bird that flies, What metall may resist the flaming fire? Doth not the sun dasill the clearest eyes, And melt the yse, and make the frost retyre? Who can withstand a puissaunt king’s disire? The stiffest stones are perced through with tooles, The wisest are with princes made but fooles. 18.