by Robert Greene
Discourteous women, nature's fairest ill,
The woe of man, that first created curse,
Base female sex, sprung from black Ate's loins,
Proud, disdainful, cruel, and unjust,
Whose words are shaded with enchanting wiles,
Worse than Medus, mateth all our minds;
And in their hearts sits shameless treachery,
Turning a truthless vile circumference,
O, could my fury paint their furies forth!
For hell's no hell, compared to their hearts,
Too simple devils to conceive their acts;
Born to be plagues unto the thoughts of men,
Brought for eternal pestilence to the world.
Last updated January 14, 2019