Drown me not, you cruel tears,
Which in sorrow witness bears
OF my wailing
And love's failing.

Floods but cover and retire,
Washing faces of desire,
Whose fresh growing
Springs by flowing

Meadows ever yet did love
Pleasant streams which by them move,
But your falling
Claims the calling

Of a torrent curstly fierce
Past wit's power to rehearse;
Only crying,
Or my dying
May instead of verse or prose
My disastrous end disclose.

--Lady Mary Wroth from Urania

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