Unstable Pride

Because her body is a tender thing,
Like powdered butterflies, that must remain
Prideless, if any hand have brushed their wing;
Or looking-glass that any breath may slain;
Or flower that being rudely handled shrinks;
Or warm wax, that takes print from any seal;
Is it indeed for this that woman thinks
To have the power of man under her heel?
Yet why should his true glory be obscured
For such a poor proud fond fragility,
Or her possession be with pride endured
Because, possessed, she lacks security?
Why should she be honoured of men because
She is dishonoured by so easy flaws?