Mary Wroth
No time, no room, no thought, nor writing can
Give rest, or quiet to my loving heart,
Nor can my memory or fancy scan
The measure of my still-renewing smart.
Yet would I not (dear love) thou shouldst depart
But let thy passions as they first began
Rule, wound, and please, it is thy choicest art
To give disquiet which seems ease to man;
When all alone I think upon thy pain,
How thou dost travail our best selves to gain;
Then hourly thy lessons do I learn,
Think on thy glory which shall still ascend
Until the world come to a final end,
And then shall we thy lasting power discern.