From a true wife to one over bolde

Be not amazed that scornfulle I reproveThe boldenesse did my modestie misprize,Nor thinke it strange that gentle seemirge lippeaShould arm their softnesse with a sterne disguise.Roses may harbour bees, and serpents wildeUnder sweet summer's flowerie zone abide,And shame-faced Love wears, hooded at her will,On her fayre wriste the brighte-eyed merlin, pride.

As reedes bende lowe before a cominge storme,Well mote your boldnesse shrinke before my frowne;Well my disdaynful glance mote quelle your owne,As hawkes do strike the coward quarrie downe.Yet holde me not of temper cold and strange,That so I keepe my matron armour brighte;If my deare Lorde had claymed his lawfulle due,How readie were these lippes to yielde his righto!