17 Poem by Mary Wroth

Truly (poore night) thou welcome art to me,
I love thee better in this sad attire
Then that which rayseth some mens fant'sies higher,
Like painted outsides, which foule inward be.
I love thy grave and saddest lookes to see,
Which seems my soule and dying heart entire,
Like to the ashes of some happy fire,
That flam'd in joy, but quench'd in misery.
I love thy count'nance, and thy sober pace,
Which evenly goes, and as of loving grace
To us, and mee among the rest opprest,
Gives quiet peace to my poore selfe alone,
And freely grants day leave; when thou art gone,
To give cleare light, to see all ill redrest.