18 - Poem by Mary Wroth
Sleepe fye possesse me not, nor doe not fright
Me with thy heavy, and thy deathlike might:
For counterfetting's wilder then death's sight;
And such deluding more my thoughts doe spight.
Thou suffer'st falsest shapes my soule t'affright,
Sometimes in likenesse of a hopefull spright;
And oft times like my Love, as in despight;
Joying, thou canst with malice kill delight.
When I (a poore foole made by thee) thinke joy
Doth flow, when thy fond shadowes doe destroy
My that while sencelesse selfe, left free to thee.
But now doe well, let me for ever sleepe,
And so for ever that deere Image keepe
Or still wake that my senses may be free.
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