Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 78

O how the pleasant airs of true love be
      Infected by those vapours which arise
      From out that noisome gulf, which gaping lies
Between the jaws of hellish jealousy:
A monster, others’ harm, self-misery,
      Beauty’s plague, virtue’s scourge, succour of lies;
      Who his own joy to his own hurt applies,
And only cherish doth with injury;
      Who since he hath, by nature’s special grace,
      So piercing paws as spoil when they embrace,
So nimble feet, as stir still, though on thorns;
      So many eyes aye seeking their own woe,
      So ample ears, as never good news know:
Is it not ill that such a devil wants horns?