Why should I blame her that she filled my days

    With misery， or that she would of late

    Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways，

    Or hurled the little streets upon the great，

    Had they but courage equal to desire？

    What could have made her peaceful with a mind

    That nobleness made simple as a fire，

    With beauty like a tightened bow， a kind

    That is not natural in an age like this，

    Being high and solitary and most stern？

    Why， what could she have done， being what she is？

    Was there another Troy for her to burn？