Sonnet 10.

THe slie Inchanter, when to worke his will
And secret wrong on some forespoken wight,
Frames waxe, in forme to represent a right
The poore vn witting wretch he meanes to kill,
And prickes the image, fram'd by Magicks skill;
Whereby to vexe the partie day and night:
Like hath she done, whose shew bewitcht my sight
To beauties charmes, her Louers bloud to spill.

For first, like waxe she fram'd me by her eyes,
Whose nayes sharp poynted set vpon my brest,
Martyres my life, and plagues me in this wise
VVith lingring paine to perish in vnrest;
Naught could (saue this) my sweetest faire suffice
To trie her arte on him that loues her best.