Sonet 96

Looke to a tyrant what it is to yeeld,
Who printing still to publish my disgrace,
The storie of my ouerthrow in my face,
Erects pale Trophees in that bloudlesse field:
The world that views this strange triumphall arke,
Reades in my lookes as lines thy beauties deeds,
Which in each mind so great amazement breeds,
That I am made of many eyes the marke:
But what auailes this Tygresse triumph, O,
And couldst not thou be cruell if not knowne,
But in this meager map it must be showne,
That thou insultst to see thy subiects so?
And my disgrace it grieues me not so much,
As that it should be said that thou art such.