43 Poem by Mary Wroth

Night, welcome art thou to my minde distrest,
Darke, heavy, sad, yet not more sad then I:
Never could'st thou find fitter company
For thine owne humour, then I thus opprest.
If thou beest darke, my wrongs still unredrest
Saw never light, nor smallest blisse can spye:
If heauy joy from me too fast doth hie,
And care out-goes my hope of quiet rest.
Then now in friendship joyne with haplesse me,
Who am as sad and darke as thou canst be,
Hating all pleasure or delight of lyfe,
Silence, and griefe, with thee I best doe love.
And from you three I know I can not move,
Then let us live companions without strife.