55 Poem by Mary Wroth

How like a fire doth love increase in me!
The longer that it lasts the stronger still;
The greater, purer, brighter; and doth fill
No eye with wonder more then hopes still bee.
Bred in my breast, when fires of Love are free
To use that part to their best pleasing will,
And now unpossible it is to kill
The heate so great where Love his strength doth see.
Mine eyes can scarce sustaine the flames, my heart
Doth trust in them my passions to impart,
And languishingly strive to shew my love.
My breath not able is to breathe least part
Of that increasing fuell of my smart;
Yet love I will, till I but ashes prove.