IN vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace, <br />and doe myne humbled hart before her poure: <br />the whiles her foot she in my necke doth place, <br />and tread my life downe in the lowly floure. <br />And yet the Lyon that is Lord of power, <br />and reigneth ouer euery beast in field: <br />in his most pride disdeigneth to deuoure <br />the silly lambe that to his might doth yield. <br />But she more cruell and more saluage wylde, <br />then either Lyon or the Lyonesse: <br />shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde, <br />but taketh glory in her cruelnesse. <br />Fayrer then fayrest let none euer say, <br />that ye were blooded in a yeelded pray.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xx-2/
