Mary Wroth Poems
|1.||[bee You All Pleas'D, Your Pleasures Grieve Not Me]||9/18/2010|
|2.||[no Time, No Roome, No Thought, Or Writing Can Give Rest]||9/18/2010|
|3.||[o That No Day Would Ever More Appear]||9/18/2010|
|19.||49 (Song 7)||9/18/2010|
Love a childe is ever crying,
Please him, and he strait is flying;
Give him, he the more is craving,
Never satisfi'd with having.
His desires have no measure,
Endlesse folly is his treasure:
What he promiseth, he breaketh,
Trust not one word that he speaketh.
Hee vowes nothing but false matter,
And to cousen you hee'l flatter:
Let him gain the hand, hee'l leave you,
And still glory to deceive you.
Hee will triumph in your wailing,
And yet cause be of your failing:
these his vertues are, and slighter
are his guifts, his favours ...
Cloy'd with the torments of a tedious night,
I wish for day; which come, I hope for joy:
When crosse I finde, new tortures to destroy,
My woe-kil'd heart, first hurt by mischiefs might.
Then crye for night, and once more day takes flight.
And brightnesse gone; what rest should heere injoy
Usurped is: Hate will her force imploy;
Night cannot Griefe intombe though blacke as spite.
My thoughts are sad, her face as sad doth seeme;