Mary Wroth
How well poor heart thou witness canst I love,
How oft my grief hath made thee shed for tears
Drops of thy dearest blood, and how oft fears
Borne testimony of the pains I prove,
What torments hast thou suffered while above
Joy thou tortured wert with racks which longing bears.
Pinched with desires which yet but wishing rears
Firm in my faith, in constancy to move,
Yet is it said that sure love cannot be
Where so small show of passion is descried,
When thy chief pain is that I must it hide
From all save only one who should it see.
For know more passion in my heart doth move
Than in a million that make show they love.