Mary Wroth

(1587-1651 / England)

31 - Poem by Mary Wroth

Fie tedious Hope, why doe you still rebell?
Is it not yet enough you flatter'd me,
But cuningly you seeke to use a Spell
How to betray; must these your Trophies bee?
I look'd from you farre sweeter fruite to see,
But blasted were your blossomes when they fell:
And those delights expected from hands free,
Wither'd and dead, and what seemd blisse proues hell.
No Towne was won by a more plotted slight
Then I by you, who may my fortune write,
In embers of that fire which ruin'd me:
Thus Hope your falshood calls you to be tryde,
You'r loth, I see, the tryall to abide;
Prove true at last, and gaine your liberty.

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, September 18, 2010



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