7 (Song 1) Poem by Mary Wroth

The spring now come at last
To Trees, Fields, to Flowres,
And meadowes makes to taste
His pride, while sad showres
Which from mine eyes doe flow
Makes knowne with cruell paines,
Cold Winter yet remaines,
No signe of Spring we knowe.

The Sunne which to the Earth
Gives heate, light, and pleasure,
Joyes in Spring, hateth Dearth,
Plenty makes his Treasure.
His heate to me is colde,
His light all darknesse is,
Since I am barr'd of blisse,
I heate, nor light behold

A Shepherdesse thus said,
Who was with griefe opprest,
For truest Love betrayd,
Barr'd her from quiett rest:
And weeping thus, said shee,
My end approacheth neere,
Now Willow must I weare,
My fortune so will bee.

With Branches of this tree
Ile dresse my haplesse head,
Which shall my wittnes bee,
My hopes in Love are dead:
My cloathes imbroder'd all,
Shall be with Garlands round,
Some scatter'd, others bound;
Some tyde, some like to fall.

The Barke my Booke shall bee,
Where dayly I will write,
This tale of haples mee,
True slave to Fortunes spite.
The roote shall be my bedd,
Where nightly I will lye
Wailing inconstancy,
Since all true love is dead.

And these Lines I will leave,
If some such Lover come,
Who may them right conceive,
and place them on my Tombe:
She who still constant lou'd
Now dead with cruell care,
Kill'd with unkind Dispaire,
And change, her end heere prou'd.