Mary Wroth
O me the time is come to part,
And with it my life-killing smart
Fond hope leave me my dear must go
To meet more joy, and I more woe;
Where still of mirth enjoy thy fill
One is enough to suffer ill
My heart so well to sorrow used
Can better be by new grief bruised;
Thou whom the heavens themselves like made
Should never sit in mourning shade.
No, I alone must mourn, and end
Who have a life in grief to spend,
My swiftest pace to wailing bent
Shows joy had but some short time lent
To bide in me where woes must dwell,
And charm me with their cruel spell.
And yet when they their witchcrafts try
They only make me wish to die,
But ere my faith in love they change
In horrid darkness will I range.