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Poem	THe Panther knowing that his spotted hyde, Doth please all beasts but that his looks the[m] fray: within a bush his dreadfull head doth hide, to let them gaze whylest he on them may pray. Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play, for with the goodly semblant of her hew: she doth allure me to mine owne decay, and then no mercy will vnto me shew. Great shame it is, thing so diuine in view, made for to be the worlds most ornament: to make the bayte her gazers to embrew, good shames to be so ill an instrument. But mercy doth with beautie best agree, as in theyr maker ye them best may see.
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