9 Poem by Mary Wroth

Ledd by the power of griefe to wailings brought,
By false conceit of change fallen on my part;
I seeke for some smale ease by lines which bought,
Increase the paine; griefe is not cur'd by Art.
Ah! how unkindnesse moves within the heart,
Which still is true and free from changing thought:
What unknowne woe it breeds, what endlesse smart,
With ceaslesse teares which causelessly are wrought.
It makes me now to shun all shining light,
And seeke for blackest clouds me light to give:
Which to all others only darkness drive;
They on me shine, for Sunne disdaines my sight.
Yet though I darke do live, I triumph may,
Unkindnes, nor this wrong shall love allay.