O woefull warre, that flowd’st in flouds of strife,
And card’st not whom thou cut’st with cruell knife!
So,[265] had not Venus fraught my face with hue,
I had no longer liu’d my forme to rue.
8.
But[266] as I came a captiue with the rest,
My countenaunce did shine as braue as Sunne:
Ech one that sawe my natiue hue, were prest
To yeeld them selues, by beames of beauty wonne.
My fame strayght blowne, to gaze on me they runne,