Mary Wroth

(1587-1651 / England)

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
4. 12 9/18/2010
5. 13 9/18/2010
6. 15 9/18/2010
7. 17 9/18/2010
8. 18 9/18/2010
9. 19 9/18/2010
10. 2 9/18/2010
11. 20 9/18/2010
12. 23 9/18/2010
13. 24 9/18/2010
14. 44 9/18/2010
15. 45 9/18/2010
16. 46 9/18/2010
17. 47 9/18/2010
18. 48 9/18/2010
19. 49 (Song 7) 9/18/2010
20. 5 9/18/2010
21. 50 9/18/2010
22. 51 9/18/2010
23. 52 9/18/2010
24. 53 9/18/2010
25. 54 9/18/2010
26. 55 9/18/2010
27. 56 9/18/2010
28. 57 9/18/2010
29. 58 9/18/2010
30. 59 9/18/2010
31. 6 9/18/2010
32. 60 9/18/2010
33. 61 9/18/2010
34. 62 9/18/2010
35. 63 9/18/2010
36. 3 9/18/2010
37. 30 9/18/2010
38. 31 9/18/2010
39. 32 9/18/2010
40. 33 9/18/2010
Best Poem of Mary Wroth

74

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 ...

Read the full of 74

15

Deare famish not what you your selfe gave food,
Destroy not what your glory is to save:
Kill not that soule to which you spirit gave,
In pitty, not disdaine, your triumph stood.
An easie thing it is to shed the bloud
Of one who at your will yeelds to the grave:
But more you may true worth by mercy crave,
When you preserve, not spoyle, but nourish good.
Your sight is all the food I doe desire,

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