Sonnet 77

OH how the pleasant ayres, of true Loue bee
Infected by those vapours, which arise
From out that noysome gulfe: which gaping lies
Betweene the iawes of hellish Ielousey.
A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery.
Beauties plague, Vertues scurdge, succour of lyes:
Who his owne ioy to his owne heart applyes,
And onely cherrish doth with iniuries:
Who since he hath by natures speciall grace,
So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace,
So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes,
So manie eyes as seeking their owne woe.
So ample eares, that neuer good newes knowe,
Is it not ill that such a beast wants hornes?