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Poem	She hath not beauty, that ill-fortun’d gem Wherewith may women dazzle men’s meek eyes Ere they enslave, un-man & slaughter them. Nor doth she vaunt afar her heart’s hid prize, Nor with wide-lavish’d scent of hope allure Ere men behold her, nor with rich disguise. Nor hath she wit, that sword wherewith to smart Delicate souls, with flashing stroke unsure Of sharp misprise, wounding some gentle heart. Yet not unlovely she, my silent rose, That only may to true love’s eyes unclose, Nor yet doth stintingly her smiles impart; —But should bold evil venture, O what proud Pitilessness hath she then, what anger loud!
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