4 Poem by Mary Wroth

Forbeare darke night, my joyes now budd againe,
Lately growne dead, while cold aspects, did chill
The roote at heart, and my chiefe hope quite kill,
And thunders strooke me in my pleasures waine.
Then I alas with bitter sobs, and paine,
Privately groan'd, my Fortunes present ill;
All light of comfort dimb'd, woes in prides fill,
With strange encrease of griefe, I griev'd in vaine.
And most, when as a memory to good
Molested me, which still as witnes stood,
Of those best dayes, in former time I knew:
Late gone as wonders past, like the great Snow,
Melted and wasted, with what, change must know:
Now backe the life comes where as once it grew.