By Lady Mary Wroth.

No time, no room, no thought or writing can

Give rest, or quiet to my loving heart,
Or can my memory, or Phant'sie scan,
The measure of my still renewing smart.

Yet would I not (dear Love) thou shoul'st depart,

But let my passions as they first began,
Rule, wound, and please, it is thy choysest Art,
To give disquiet, which seems ease to man.

When all alone, I think upon thy pain,

How thou dost travel our best selves to gain,
Then hourly thy lessons I do learn;

Think on thy glory, which shall still ascend,

Until the world came to a final end,
And then shall we thy lasing power discern.

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