13 Poem by Mary Wroth

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;
My paines are long, Her howers tedious are;
My griefe is great, and endlesse is my care;
Her face, her force, and all of woes esteeme.
Then welcome Night, and farwell flattering Day,
Which all hopes breed, and yet our joyes delay.