66 Poem by Mary Wroth

Cruell suspition, O! be now at rest,
Let daily torments bring to thee some stay,
Alas, make not my ill thy ease-full pray,
Nor giue loose raines to Rage, when Love's opprest.
I am by care sufficiently distrest,
No Racke can stretch my heart more, nor a way
Can I find out, for least content to lay
One happy foot of joy, one step that's blest.
But to my end thou fly'st with greedy eye,
Seeking to bring griefe by bace Jealousie;
O, in how strange a Cage am I kept in?
No little signe of favour can I proove,
But must be way'd, and turn'd to wronging love,
And with each humour must my state begin.