Mary Wroth
Poor eyes be blind, the light behold no more
Since that is gone which is your dear delight,
Ravished from you by greater power, and might,
Making your loss a gain to others' store,
O'erflow, and drown, till sight to you restore
That blessed star, and as in hateful spite
Send forth your tears in floods, to kill all sight,
And looks, that lost, wherein you joyed before.
Bury those beams, which in some kindled fires,
And conquered have their love-burnt hearts' desires
Losing, and yet no gain by you esteemed,
Till that bright star do once again appear
Brighter than Mars when he doth shine most clear
See not: then by his might be you redeemed.