[no Time, No Roome, No Thought, Or Writing Can Give Rest] Poem by Mary Wroth

No time, no roome, no thought, or writing can
Give rest, or quiet to my loving heart,
Or can my memory or Phant'sie scan,
The measure of my still renewing smart.
Yet whould I not (deare Love) thou shouldst depart,
But let my passions as they first began,
Rule, wounde, and please, it is thy choysest Art,
To give disquiet, which seemes ease to man.
When all alone, I thinke upon thy paine,
How thou doest travell our best selves to gaine,
Then houerly thy lessons I doe learne;
Thinke on thy glory, which shall still ascend,
Untill the world come to a finall end,
And then shall we thy lasting powre dicerne.