49 (Song 7) Poem by Mary Wroth

Sorrow, I yeeld, and grieve that I did misse;
Will not thy rage be satified with this?
As sad a Divell as thee,
Made me unhappy be:
Wilt thou not yet consent to leave, but still
Strive how to show thy cursed divelish skill?

I mourne, and dying am, what would you more?
My soule attends, to leaue this cursed shoare
Where harmes doe only flow,
Which teach me but to know
The saddest houres of my lifes unrest,
And tyred minutes with griefes hand opprest.

Yet all this will not pacifie thy spight,
No, nothing can bring ease but my last night,
Then quickly let it be,
While I unhappy see
That time so sparing, to grant Lovers blisse,
Will see for time lost, there shall no griefe misse.

Nor let me ever cease from lasting griefe,
But endlesse let it be without reliefe;
To winn againe of Love,
The favour I did proove,
And with my end please him, since dying, I
Have him offended, yet unwillingly.