Mary Wroth

Love a childe is ever crying,
Please him, and he strait is flying;
Give him, he the more is craving,
Never satisfi'd with having.
...

When night's blacke Mantle could most darknesse prove,
And sleepe (deaths Image) did my senses hyre,
...

Am I thus conquer'd? hame I lost the powers,
That to withstand, which joyes to ruine me?
Must I bee still, while it my strength devoures,
...

The spring now come at last
To Trees, Fields, to Flowres,
And meadowes makes to taste
His pride, while sad showres
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My paine still smother'd in my grieved brest,
Seekes for some ease, yet cannot passage finde,
To be discharg'd of this unwellcome guest,
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Except my heart, which you bestow'd before,
And for a signe of Conquest gave away
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The weary Traveller, who tyred, sought
In places distant farre, yet found no end
Of paine or labour, nor his state to mend:
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False hope which feeds but to destroy, and spill
What it first breeds, unnaturall to the birth
Of thine owne wombe, conceiuing but to kill
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How Glowworme-like the Sun doth now appeare,
Cold beames doe from his glorious face descend
Which shewes his daies, and force draw to an end,
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Stay my thoughts do not aspire,
To vaine hopes of high desire;
See you not all meanes bereft,
...

Sweetest Love returne againe,
Make not too long stay;
Killing mirth and forcing paine;
Sorrow leading way:
...

Take heed mine eyes, how you your looks doe cast,
Lest they betray my hearts most secret thought:
Be true unto your selves; for nothing's bought
...

In this strange Labyrinth how shall I turne,
Wayes are on all sides while the way I misse:
If to the right hand, there, in love I burne,
...

Come darkest Night, becomming sorrow best,
Light leave thy light, fit for a lightsome soule:
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All Night I weepe, all Day I cry, Ay me,
I still doe wish, though yet deny, ay me;
I sigh, I mourne, I say that still,
...

Like to the Indians scorched with the Sunne,
The Sunne which they doe as their God adore:
So am I us'd by Love, for evermore
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Once did I heare an aged father say
Unto his sonne, who with attention heares
...

When every one to pleasing pastime hies
Some hunt, some hawke, some play, while some delight
In sweet discourse, and musicke shewes joys might:
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Poore eyes bee blinde, the light behold noe more,
Since that is gon which is your deare delight:
Ravish'd from you by greater powre, and might,
...

My Muse now happy lay thy selfe to rest,
Sleepe in the quiet of a faithfull love,
Write you no more, but let these Phant'sies mooue
...