| Why should I blame her that she filled my days |
| With misery, or that she would of late |
| Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, |
| Or hurled the little streets upon the great, |
| Had they but courage equal to desire? |
| What could have made her peaceful with a mind |
| That nobleness made simple as a fire, |
| With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind |
| That is not natural in an age like this, |
| Being high and solitary and most stern? |
| Why, what could she have done, being what she is? |
| Was there another Troy for her to burn? |