To his Lady, cruel over her yielding Lover

SUCH is the course that nature’s kind hath wrought,

That snakes have time to cast away their stings:

Against chain’d prisoners what need defence be sought?

The fierce lion will hurt no yielden things:

Why should such spite be nursed then by thought?

Sith all these powers are prest under thy wings;

And eke thou seest, and reason thee hath taught,

What mischief malice many ways it brings:

Consider eke, that spite availeth nought.

Therefore this song thy fault to thee it sings:

Displease thee not, for saying thus my thought,

Nor hate thou him from whom no hate forth springs:

For furies that in hell be execrable,

For that they hate, are made most miserable.