Sonet 23

Earst stately Iuno in a great disdaine,
Her beautie by ones iudgement but iniur'd,
T'auenge on a whole nation oft procur'd,
And for ones fault saw many thousands slaine:
But she whom I would to the world preferre,
Although I spend my sp'rit to praise her name,
She in a rage, as if I sought her shame,
Thirsts for my bloud, and saith I wrong her farre.
Thus ruthlesse tyrants that are bent to kill,
Of all occasions procreate a cause:
How can she hate me now (this makes me pause)
When yet I cannot but commend her still?
For this her fault comes of a modest mind,
Where fond ambition made the goddesse blind.