What hideous hagge with visage sterne appeares?
Whose feeble limmes, can scarce the bodie staie:
This, Envie is: leane, pale, and full of yeares,
Who with the blisse of other pines awaie.
And what declares, her eating vipers broode?
That poysoned thoughtes, bee evermore her foode.
What meanes her eies? so bleared, sore, and redd:
Her mourninge still, to see an others gaine.
And what is mente by snakes upon her head?
The fruite that springes, of such a venomed braine.
But whie, her harte shee rentes within her brest?
It shewes her selfe, doth worke her owne unrest.
Whie lookes shee wronge? bicause shee woulde not see,
An happie wight, which is to her a hell:
What other partes within this furie bee?
Her harte, with gall: her tonge, with stinges doth swell.
And laste of all, her staffe with prickes aboundes:
Which showes her wordes, wherewith the good shee woundes.