Sonnet XXIV. When I behold that beauty’s wonderment

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

WHEN I behold that beauty’s wonderment,

And rare perfection of each goodly part;

Of nature’s skill the only complement;

I honour and admire the Maker’s art.

But when I feel the bitter, baleful smart,

Which her fair eyes unwares do work in me,

That death out of their shiny beams do dart;

I think that I a new Pandora see,

Whom all the Gods in council did agree

Into this sinful world from heaven to send;

That she to wicked men a scourge should be,

For all their faults with which they did offend.

But, since ye are my scourge, I will entreat,

That for my faults ye will me gently beat.