I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love, yet when they have devised
What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
    And their gross painting might be better used
    Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.

Of all the poisons that run and grow
Many I´ve studied and stored for my own
But none of them vices works as strong
As the words been spilled by your rivals tongue

Oh, many a poison acts swift or slow
Some crueler than others, either painfull or dull
Yet none of them traceless, as the feelings below
Caused by defilement of a broken vow

True a poison works baneful
Yet compared to attaint
It is mellow and gracious
Saving further complaint

Oh I rather choose the poison
Than the tainted, evil words
Poured by trusted, out of treason
For the poison barely hurts

And I rather die in pain
Than suffer by my pride
And I rather die in vain
Than stay by the devils side