By Lady Mary Wroth
Here all alone
might I mourne:
But how can silence be where sorrowes flow?
Sighs with complaints have poorer paines out-worne;
But broken hearts can only true griefe show.
Drops of my dearest bloud shall let Love know
Such teares for her I shed, yet still do burne,
As no spring can quench least part of my woe,
Till this live earth, againe to earth doe turne.
Hatefull all thought of comfort is to me,
Despised day, let me still night possesse;
Let me all torments feele in their excesse,
And but this light allow my state to see.
Which still doth wast, and wasting as this light,
Are my sad dayes unto eternall night.