By Lady Mary Wroth
Yet is there hope, then Love but play thy part,
Remember well thy self, and think on me;
Shine in those eyes which conquer'd have my heart,
And see if mine, be slack to answer thee.
Lodge in that breast, and pity moving see,
For flames which in mine burn in truest smart,
Exciling thoughts, that touch inconstancy,
Or those which waste not in the constant Art,
Watch but my sleep, if I take any rest,
As, pale and famish'd, I for mercy cry.
Will you your servant leave: think but on this,
Who wears Love's crown, must not do so amiss
But seek their good, who on thy force do lie.
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