Poems of Mary Wroth
|1.||[Bee you all pleas'd, your pleasures grieve not me]||9/18/2010|
|2.||[How Glowworme-like the Sun doth now appeare,]||9/18/2010|
|3.||[My Muse now happy lay thy selfe to rest,]||9/18/2010|
|4.||[No time, no roome, no thought, or writing can give rest]||9/18/2010|
|5.||[O That no day would ever more appear]||9/18/2010|
|6.||[The weary Traveller, who tyred, sought]||9/18/2010|
|9.||14 (Song 2)||9/18/2010|
|17.||21 (Song 3)||9/18/2010|
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;