29 Poem by Mary Wroth

Poore eyes bee blinde, the light behold noe more,
Since that is gon which is your deare delight:
Ravish'd from you by greater powre, and might,
Making your losse a gaine to others store.
O'erflow and drowne, till sight to you restore
That blessed Starre, and as in hatefull spight,
Send forth your teares in flouds to kill all sight,
And looks, that lost wherin you joy'd before.
Bury these beames which in some kindled fires,
And conquer'd have their love-burnt hearts desires,
Losing, and yet no gaine by you esteem'd;
Till that bright Starre doe once againe appeare,
Brighter then
Mars
when hee doth shine most cleare;
See not then by his might be you redeem'd.