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By Lady Mary Wroth

Led by the power of grief to wailings brought,
By false conceit of change fallen on my part;
I seek for some small ease by lines which bought,
Increase the pain; grief is not cur'd by Art.
Ah! how unkindness moves within the heart,
Which still is true and free from changing thought:
What unknown woe it breeds, what endless smart,
With ceasless tears which causelessly are wrought.
It makes me now to shun all shining light,
And seek for blackest clouds me light to give:
Which to all others only darkness drive;
They on me shine, for sun disdains my sight.
Yet though I dark do live, I triumph may,
Unkindeness, nor this wrong shall love allay.

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