The poem
WHen I behold that beauties wonderment, And rare perfection of each goodly part; of natures skill the only complement, I honor and admire the makers art. But when I feele the bitter balefull smart, which her fayre eyes vnwares doe worke in mee: that death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart, I thinke that I a new Pandora see. Whom all the Gods in councell did agree, into this sinfull world from heauen to send: that she to wicked men a scourge should bee, for all their faults with which they did offend, But since ye are my scourge I will intreat, that for my faults ye will me gently beat.