52 - Poem by Mary Wroth
Good now be still, and doe not me torment,
With multituds of questions, be at rest,
And onely let me quarrell with my breast,
Which stil lets in new stormes my soule to rent.
Fye, will you still my mischiefes more augment?
You saye, I answere crosse, I that confest
Long since, yet must I ever be opprest,
With your tongue torture which will ne're be spent?
Well then I see no way but this will fright,
That Devill speech; alas, I am possest,
And madd folks senseles are of wisdomes right,
The hellish spirit, Absence, doth arrest.
All my poore senses to his cruell might,
Spare me then till I am my selfe, and blest.
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