It is some comfort to the wrongèd man,
The wronger of injustice to upbraid.
Justly myself herein I comfort can,
And justly call her an ungrateful maid.
Thus am I pleased to rid myself of crime
And stop the mouth of all-reporting fame,
Counting my greatest cross the loss of time
And all my private grief her public shame.
Ah, but to speak the truth, hence are my cares,
And in this comfort all discomfort resteth;
My harms I cause her scandal unawares;
Thus love procures the thing that love detesteth.
For he that views the glasses of my smart
Must need report she hath a flinty heart.