68 Poem by Mary Wroth

My paine still smother'd in my grieved brest,
Seekes for some ease, yet cannot passage finde,
To be discharg'd of this unwellcome guest,
When most I strive, more fast his burthens binde.
Like to a Ship on Goodwins cast by winde,
The more she strives, more deepe in Sand is prest,
Till she be lost: so am I in this kind
Sunck, and devour'd, and swallow'ed by unrest.
Lost, shipwrackt, spoyl'd, debar'd of smallest hope,
Nothing of pleasure left, save thoughts have scope,
Which wander may; goe then my thoughts and cry:
Hope's perish'd, Love tempest-beaten, Joy lost,
Killing Despaire hath all these blessings crost;
Yet Faith still cries, Love will not falsifie.