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By Lady Mary Wroth

The weary traveller, who tried, sought
In places distant far, yet found no end
Of pain or labour, nor his state to mend:
At last with joy is to his home back brought.
Finds not more ease though he with joy be fraught,
When past is fear content like souls ascend:
Then I, on whom new pleasures do descend,
Which now as high as first born bliss is wrought.
He tried with his pains, I with my mind;
He all content recieves by ease of limbs:
I, greatest happiness that I do find,
Belief for faith, while hope in pleasure swims.
Truth sayeth 'twas wrong conceit bred my despigt,
Which once acknowledg'd, brings my hearts delight.

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