Sunday, May 18

"My pain"

My pain, still smothered in my grieved breast,
Seeks for some ease, yet cannot passage find
To be discharged of this unwelcome guest:
When most I strive, most fast his burdens bind,
Like to a ship on Goodwin’s cast by wind,
The more she strives, more deep in sand is pressed,
Till she be lost; so am I, in this kind,
Sunk, and devoured, and swallowed by unrest,
Lost, shipwracked, spoiled, debarred of smallest hope,
Nothing of pleasure left; save thoughts have scope,
Which wander may. Go then, my thoughts, and cry
Hope’s perished, Love tempest-beaten, Joy lost:
Killing Despair hath all these blessings crossed.
Yet Faith still cries, Love will not satisfy.

Lady Mary Wroth

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