Taxing the faintness of my metric fires,
4240Because my lines tread not the common path
Of fortune, issue, and appeasing wrath.
Perhaps I dare not lengthen out my story
With those events succeeding time begot,
Lest some disaster should eclipse their glory,
And the pure ermines of their pleasures spot.
For having screwed them into firm embraces,
I will not waken hate or rouse disgraces.
Yet beauty (know) when virtue shines upon her,