Mary Wroth
What pleasure can a banished creature have
In all the pastimes that invented are
By wit or learning, absence making war
Against all peace that may a biding crave;
Can we delight but in a welcome grave
Where we may bury pains, and so be far
From loathed company who always jar
Upon the string of mirth that pastime gave;
The knowing part of joy is deemed the heart,
If that be gone what joy can joy impart
When senseless is the feeler of our mirth?
No, I am banished, and no good shall find
But all my fortunes must with mischief bind,
Who but for misery did gain a birth.