Rudely thou wrongest my deare harts desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I doo most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envide.
For in those lofty lookes is close implide
Scorn of base things, and sdeigne of foul dishonor;
Thretning rash eies which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to looke upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portlinesse is honor,
That boldned innocence beares in hir eies,
And her faire countenaunce, like a goodly banner,
Spreds in defiaunce of all enemies.
Was never in this world ought worthy tride*,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.
[* Tride, found.]