Sonnet.
Were thy heart soft as thou art fair,
Thou wer't a wonder past compare:
But frozen Love and fierce disdain
By their extremes thy graces stain.
Cold coyness quenches the still fires
Which glow in lovers' warm desires;
And scorn, like the quick lightning's blaze,
Darts death against affections gaze.
O Heavens, what prodigy is this