Mary Wroth
O strive not still to heap disdain on me
Nor pleasure take your cruelty to show
On hapless me, on whom all sorrows flow,
And biding make: as given, and lost by thee,
Alas; even grief is grown to pity me;
Scorn cries out 'gainst itself such ill to show,
And would give place for joy's delights to flow;
Yet wretched I, all tortures bear from thee,
Long have I suffered, and esteemed it dear
Since you so willed, yet grew my pains more near.
Wish you my end? Say so, you shall it have;
For all the depth of my heart-killed despair
Is that for you I feel not death for care;
But now I'll seek it, since you will not save.