Oh wearisome condition of humanity, 3

Born under one law to another bound,

Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity,

Created sick, commanded to be sound.

What meaneth nature by these diverse laws,

Passion and reason, self-division’s cause?

Is it the mark or majesty of power

To make offences that it may forgive?

Nature herself doth her own self deflower

To hate those errors she herself doth give


 . . If nature did not take delight in blood, She would have made more easy ways to good.