By Lady Mary Wroth

The spring now come at last
To Trees, Fields, to flowers,
And meadows makes to taste
His pride, while sad showers
Which from mine eyes do flow
Makes known with cruel pains,
Cold winter yet remains,
No sign of Spring we know.
The sun which to the Earth
Gives heat, light, and pleasure,
Joys in Spring, hateth Dearth,
Plenty makes his Treasure.
His heat to me is cold
His light all darkness is,
Since I am barred of bliss,
I heat, nor light behold
A Sheperdess thus said,
Who was with grief oppressed,
For truest love betrayd,
Barred her from quiet rest:
And weeping thus, said she,
My end approacheth near,
Now willow must I wear,
My fortune so will be.
With branches of this tree
I'll dress my hapless head,
Which shall my witness be,
My hopes in Love are dead:
My clothes imbroder'd all,
Shall be with Garlands round,
Some scatter'd, others bound;
Some tide, some like to fall.
The bark my book shall be,
Where daily I will write,
This tale of hapless me,
True slave to Fortune's spite.
The root shall be my bed,
Where nightly I will lie
Wailing inconstancy
Since all true love is dead.
And these lines I will leave,
If some such lover come,
Who may them right conceive,
And place them on my Tomb:
She who still constant lov'd
Now dead with cruel care,
Kill'd with unkind despair,
And change, her end here prov'd.

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