But upon one whose beauty was above
All sort of art, whose love was more then love,
On her to fix thy ugly counterfett,
Was to erect a pyramide of jett,
And put out fire to digg a turfe from hell,
And place it where a gentle soule should dwell:
A soule which in the body would not stay,
When twas noe more a body, nor good clay,
But a huge ulcer. O thou heav’nly race,
Thou soule that shunn’st th’ infection of thy case,