More high than pomp’s vain pinnacle of praise),
Or this: to forge therefrom a trenchant sword
Whereat shall poltroon evil cower & fly,
& smite Hell’s fiends of foulness that they die.
17
She hath not beauty, that ill-fortun’d gem
Wherewith may women dazzle men’s meek eyes
Ere they enslave, un-man & slaughter them.
Nor doth she vaunt afar her heart’s hid prize,
Nor with wide-lavish’d scent of hope allure