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What euill canst thou thinke within thy hart,
Or speake of her, whose goodnes more or lesse,
Doth fill the world so full of happinesse,
But onely this, that woman was the cause,
Though not alone, of one exceeding ill,
In bringing foorth (constrained by natures lawes)
A man, whose mischiefes all the world doth fill:
Who after that he is conceiu’d and borne,
Against his mother proudly liftes his horne.

Whom if she had not borne, poore silly dame,
With fewer greefes her life she might haue lead,
For then he should not slaunder thus her name,
And such a crowe she should not then haue bred,
That being hatch’d, her dam would thus despise,
And daily labour to plucke out her eies.
What man in all the world did euer knowe,
(Although the tendrest father he had beene)
Those cares, and greefes, that sorrow, and that woe,
Which wiues haue for their husbands felt, and seene?
And how the louing mother for her sonne
With sorrow hath beene oftentimes vndone?

Behold with what affection, and what ioy,
What gentlenes, and what intensiue loue,
The mother dothintreate her little boy?
Which after doth a Traitour to her prooue:
Requiting ill her paines and loue so kinde
With powring sorrowes still into her minde.
What iealous feares, what fearefull iealousies,
Doe haunt the mother for her cruell sonne?
What paine, when that in any paine he lies,
What greefe, when that with greefe he is vndone?
What perfect gladnes, and what sweete content,
When that he is to any goodnes bent?

Alas how pensiue and how sad they ar,
If that their husbands suffer any paine:
What sorrow, when they trauell somewhat far,
What moane, when that they come not soone againe:
A thousand greefes to heare their losse of wealth,
Ten thousand deathes to heare their want of health.
But men that are so full of false deceate,
Our daily sorrowes neuer doe requite,
Or thinke of them, though they be neuer so great,
But rather such their malice and despite
Is; that our louing cares both great and small,
Vniust suspects, and iealousies doe call.