Why should I blame her that she filled my days

    With misery¹， or that she would of late

    Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways，

    Or hurled² 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 tightened³ bow， a kind

    That is not natural in an age like this，

    Being high and solitary⁴ and most stern？

    Why， what could she have done， being what she is？

    Was there another Troy for her to burn？

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