47 - Poem by Mary Wroth
You blessed Starres, which doe Heaven's glory show,
And at your brightnesse make our eyes admire:
Yet envy not, though I on earth below,
Injoy a sight which moves in me more fire.
I doe confesse such beauty breeds desire
You shine, and clearest light on us bestow:
Yet doth a sight on Earth more warmth inspire
Into my loving soule, his grace to know.
Cleare, bright, and shining, as you are, is this
Light of my joy: fix't stedfast, nor will move
His light from me, nor I chang from his love;
But still increase as th'eith of all my blisse.
His sight giues life unto my love-rould eyes,
My love content, because in his love lies.
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