Lady Mary Wroth

Love peruse me, seeke, and finde How each corner of my minde Is a twine Woven to shine. Not a Webb ill made, foule fram’d, Bastard not by Father nam’d, Such in me Cannot bee. Deare behold me, you shall see Faith the Hive, and love the Bee, Which doe bring. Gaine and sting. Pray desect me, sinewes, vaines, Hold, and loves life in those gaines; Lying bare To despaire, When you thus anotamise All my body, my heart prise; Being true Just to you. Close the Truncke, embalme the Chest, Where your power still shall rest, Joy entombe, Loves just doome.

Time only cause of my unrest By whom I hop’d once to bee blest How cruell art thou turned? That first gav’st lyfe unto my love, And still a pleasure nott to move Or change though ever burned; Have I thee slack’d, or left undun One loving rite, and soe have wunn Thy rage or bitter changing? That now noe minutes I shall see, Wherein I may least happy bee Thy favors soe estranging. Blame thy self, and nott my folly, Time gave time butt to bee holly; True love such ends best loveth Unworhty love doth seeke for ends A worthy love butt worth pretends Nor other thoughts itt proveth: Then stay thy swiftnes cruell time, And lett mee once more blessed clime To joy, that I may prayse thee: Lett mee pleasure sweetly tasting Joy in love, and faith nott wasting And on fames wings I’le rayse thee: Never shall thy glory dying Bee untill thine owne untying That time noe longer liveth; T’is a gaine such tyme to lend: Since soe thy fame shall never end Butt joy for what she giveth.

Love leave to urge, thou know’st thou hast the hand; ’T’is cowardise, to strive wher none resist: Pray thee leave off, I yeeld unto thy band; Doe nott thus, still, in thine owne powre persist, Beehold I yeeld: lett forces bee dismist; I ame thy subject, conquer’d, bound to stand, Never thy foe, butt did thy claime assist Seeking thy due of those who did withstand; Butt now, itt seemes, thou would’st I should thee love; I doe confess, t’was thy will made mee chuse; And thy faire showes made mee a lover prove When I my freedome did, for paine refuse. Yett this Sir God, your boyship I dispise; Your charmes I obay, butt love nott want of eyes.

When I beeheld the Image of my deere With greedy lookes mine eyes would that way bend, Fear, and desire did inwardly contend; Feare to bee mark’d, desire to drawe still neere, And in my soule a speritt wowld apeer, Which boldnes waranted, and did pretend To bee my genius, yett I durst nott lend My eyes in trust wher others seemed soe cleere, Then did I search from whence this danger ’rose, If such unworthynes in mee did rest As my sterv’d eyes must nott with sight bee blest; When jealousie her poyson did disclose; Yett in my hart unseense of jealous eye The truer Image shall in triumph lye.

Love like a jugler, comes to play his prise, And all minds draw his wonders to admire, To see how cuningly hee, wanting eyes, Can yett deseave the best sight of desire: The wanton child, how hee can faine his fire So pretely, as none sees his disguise! How finely doe his tricks, while wee fooles hire The badge, and office of his tirannies, For in the end, such jugling hee doth make As hee our harts, in stead of eyes doth take For men can only by theyr slieghts abuse The sight with nimble, and delightful skill; Butt if hee play, his gaine is our lost will: Yett childlike, wee can nott his sports refuse.

Come darkest night, becoming sorrow best; Light; leave thy light; fitt for a lightsome soule; Darknes doth truly sure with mee oprest Whom absence power doth from mirthe controle: The very trees with hanging heads condole Sweet sommers parting, and of leaves distrest In dying coulers make a griefe-full role; Soe much (alas) to sorrow are they prest, Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpett’s made: Theyr fall, theyr branches, all theyr mournings prove; With leavles, naked bodies, whose huese vade From hopefull greene, to wither in theyr love, If trees, and leaves for absence, mourners bee Noe mervaile that I grieve, who like want see.

Sweet shades why doe you seeke to give delight To mee who deeme delight in this vilde place Butt torment, sorrow, and mine owne disgrace To taste of joy, or your vaine pleasing sight; Show them your pleasures who saw never night Of greife, wher joyings fauning, smiling face Appeers as day, wher griefe found never space Yett for a sigh, a grone, or envies spite; Butt O on mee a world of woes doe ly, Or els on mee all harmes strive to rely, And to attend like servants bound to mee, Heat in desire, while frosts of care I prove, Wanting my love, yett surfett doe with love Burne, and yett freeze, better in hell to bee.