By Lady Mary Wroth.

O strive not still to heap disdain on me,
Nor pleasure take, your cruelty to show,
On hapless me, on whom all sorrows flow,
And biding make: as given, and lost by thee.
Alas; even grief is grown to pity me,
Scorn cries out 'gainst it self such ill to show,
And would give place for joys delights to flow;
Yet wretched I, all torture bear from thee. Tortures
Long have I suffer'd, and esteem'd it dear,
Sinc such thy will, yet grew my pain more near:
Wish you may end, say so, you shall it have; My
for all the depth of my heart-held despair,
Is that for you, I feel not Death for care,
But now I'll seek it, since you will not save.

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