O how the pleasant aires of true loue be
Infected by those vapours, which arise
From out that noysome gulfe, which gaping lies
Betweene the jawes of hellish Iealousie.
A monster, others harme, selfe-miserie,
Beauties plague, Vertues scourge, succour of lies:
Who his owne joy to his owne hurt applies,
And only cherish doth with injurie.
Who since he hath, by Natures speciall grace,
So piercing pawes, as spoyle when they embrace,
So nimble feet as stirre still, though on thornes:
So manie eyes ay seeking their owne woe,
So ample eares as neuer good newes know:
It is not euill that such a Deuill wants hornes?
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