63 Poem by Mary Wroth

In night yet may we see some kinde of light,
When as the Moone doth please to shew her face,
And in the Sunns roome yeelds her light, and grace,
Which otherwise must suffer dullest night:
So are my fortunes barr'd from true delight,
Cold, and uncertaine, like to this strange place,
Decreasing, changing in an instant space,
And even at full of joy turnd to despight.
Justly on Fortune was bestow'd the Wheele,
Whose fauours fickle, and unconstant reele,
Drunke with delight of change and sudden paine;
Where pleasure hath no setled place of stay,
But turning still, for our best hopes decay,
And this (alas) we lovers often gaine.