Mary Wroth
How glowworm-like the sun doth now appear,
Cold beams do from his glorious face descend,
Which shows his days and force draw to an end,
Or that to leave-taking his time grows near.
This day his face did seem but pale, though clear,
The reason is: he to the North must lend
His light, and warmth must to that climate bend
Whose frozen parts could not love's heat hold dear.
Alas if thou (bright sun) to part from hence
Grieve so, what must I, hapless, who from thence
Where thou dost go my blessing shall attend?
Thou shalt enjoy that sight for which I die,
And in my heart thy fortunes do envy --
Yet grieve, I'll love thee, for this state may mend.