Sonnet 24

WHEN I behold that beauties wonderment,

And rare perfection of each goodly part:

Of Natures skill the onely complement,

I honor and admire the Makers art.

But when I feele the bitter balefull smart,

Which her fayre eyes unwares doe worke in mee:

That death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart,

I thinke that I a new Pandora see.

Whom all the gods in councell did agree,

Into this sinfull world from heaven to send:

That she to wicked men a scourge should bee,

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.