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