Mary Wroth
How like a fire doth love increase in me,
The longer that it lasts, the stronger still,
The greater, purer, brighter, and doth fill
No eye with wonder more; then hopes still be
Bred in my breast, where fires of love are free
To use that part to their best pleasing will,
And now impossible it is to kill
The heat so great where Love his strength doth see.
Mine eyes can scarce sustain the flames, my heart
Doth trust in them my longings to impart,
And languishingly strive to show my love;
My breath not able is to breathe least part
Of that increasing fuel of my smart;
Yet love I will till I but ashes prove.