50 Poem by Mary Wroth

O dearest eyes, the lights, and guides of Love,
The joyes of Cupid, who himselfe borne blinde,
To your bright shining, doth his tryumphs binde;
For, in your seeing doth his glory move.
How happy are those places where you proove
Your heavenly beames, which make the Sun to finde
Envy and grudging, he so long hath shin'd
For your cleare lights, to match his beames aboue.
But now alas, your sight is heere forbid,
And darkenes must these poore lost roomes possesse,
So be all blessed lights from henceforth hid,
That this blacke deede of darknesse haue excesse.
For why showld Heaven affoord least light to those,
Who for my misery such darkenesse chose.