76 Poem by Mary Wroth

O pardon
Cupid
, I confesse my fault,
Then mercy grant me in so just a kinde:
For treason never lodged in my minde
Against thy might, so much as in a thought.
And now my folly I have dearely bought,
Nor could my soule least rest or quiett finde;
Since Rashnes did my thoughts to Error binde,
Which now thy fury, and my harme hath wrought.
I curse that thought, and hand which that first fram'd,
For which by thee I am most justly blam'd:
But now that hand shall guided be aright,
And give a Crowne unto thy endlesse praise,
Which shall thy glory, and thy greatnesse raise,
More then these poore things could thy honor spight.