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,
Increaseth pain; grief is not cured 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 ceaseless tears which causelessly are brought.
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
Unkindness, nor this wrong shall love allay.