Biography of Mary Wroth
Lady Mary Wroth (1587–1651/3) was an English poet of the Renaissance. A member of a distinguished literary English family, Wroth was among the first female British writers to have achieved an enduring reputation. She is perhaps best known for having written The Countesse of Mountgomeries Urania, the first extant prose romance by an English woman, and for Pamphilia to Amphilanthus, the first known sonnet sequence by an English woman.
Mary Wroth Poems
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.
From: Pamphilia To Amphilanthus: Sonnet ...
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,
7 (Song 1)
The spring now come at last To Trees, Fields, to Flowres, And meadowes makes to taste His pride, while sad showres
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,
Except my heart, which you bestow'd before, And for a signe of Conquest gave away
[the Weary Traveller, Who Tyred, Sought]
The weary Traveller, who tyred, sought In places distant farre, yet found no end Of paine or labour, nor his state to mend:
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
[how Glowworme-Like The Sun Doth Now App...
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,
21 (Song 3)
Stay my thoughts do not aspire, To vaine hopes of high desire; See you not all meanes bereft,
28 (Song 4)
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,
14 (Song 2)
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,
Cloy'd with the torments of a tedious night,
I wish for day; which come, I hope for joy:
When crosse I finde, new tortures to destroy,
My woe-kil'd heart, first hurt by mischiefs might.
Then crye for night, and once more day takes flight.
And brightnesse gone; what rest should heere injoy
Usurped is: Hate will her force imploy;
Night cannot Griefe intombe though blacke as spite.
My thoughts are sad, her face as sad doth seeme;