From Urania
By Lady Mary Wroth

Sweet solitariness, joy to those hearts
That feel the leasure of love's sporting darts,
Grudge me not, though a vassal to his might,
And a poor subject to curst changing's spite,
To rest in you, or rather restless move
In your contents to sorrow for my love.
A love, which living lives as dead to me,
As holy relics which in boxes be
Placed in a chest, that overthrows my joy,
Shut up in change, which more than plagues destroy.
These, O you solitariness, may both endure,
And be a chirurgeon to find me a cure:
For this curst corsive eating my best rest,
Memory, sad memory in you once blessed,
But now most miserable with the weight
Of that which only shows love's strange deceit,
You are that cruel wound that inly wears
My soul, my body wasting into tears.
You keep mine eyes unclosed, my heart untied,
From letting thought of my best days to slide.
Froward remembrance, what delight have you
Over my miseries to take a view?
Why do you tell me in this same-like place
Of earth's best blessing I have seen the face?
But masked from me, I only see the shade
Of that which once my brightest sunshine made.
You tell me, that I then was blessed in love,
When equal passions did together move.
O why is this alone to bring distress
Without a salve, but torments in excess?

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