The lovely part, distrest,
My praise doth deprecate,
And sue to Reason for her sisters’ sake,
That also they be cherished, and forgiven
For fault they did not mean. Then Love, irate,
Who thinketh but on pain that they have given,
Saith, in his court there lieth no appeal.
Yet Heaven willeth fondness that I feel,
When toward her imperfection merciful,
Time maketh her, for me, all beautiful.