Mary Wroth

(1587-1651 / England)

2 - Poem by Mary Wroth

Deare eyes how well indeed, you doe adorne
That blessed Sphere, which gazing soules hold deare?
The loved place of sought for triumphs, neere
The Court of Glory, where Loves force was borne.
How may they terme you
sweetest morne?
When pleasing lookes, from those bright lights appeare
A Sunne-shine day, from clowdes, and mists still cleare:
Kinde nursing fires for wishes yet unborne.
Two Starres of Heaven sent downe to grace the Earth,
Plac'd in that Throne which gives all joyes their birthe,
Shining, and burning; pleasing yet their Charmes:
Which wounding, even in hurts are deem'd delights;
So pleasant is their force, so great their mights,
As happy they can tryumph in their harmes.

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, September 18, 2010

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