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< Sonnet XXIV
Amoretti and Epithalamium (1595, 43)
WHEN I behold that beauty's wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part:
of nature's skill the only complement,
I honour and admire the maker's art.
But when I feel the bitter balefull smart,
which her fair eyes unwares do work in me:
that death out of their shiny beams do dart,
I think that I a new Pandora see.
Whom all the Gods in council did agree,
into this sinfull world from heaven to send:
that she to wicked men a scourge should be,
for all their faults with which they did offend.
But since ye are my scourge I will intreat,
that for my faults ye will me gently beat.
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