Mary Wroth
How fast thou fliest, O Time, on love's swift wings
To hopes of joy, that flatters our desire
Which to a lover, still, contentment brings!
Yet, when we should enjoy, thou dost retire.
Thou stayest thy pace, false time, from our desire,
When to our ill thou hast'st with Eagle's wings,
Slow, only to make us see thy retire
Was for despair, and harm, which sorrow brings;
O! slack thy pace, and milder pass to love
Be like the bee, whose wings she doth but use
To bring home profit, masters good to prove
Laden, and weary, yet again pursues,
So lade thyself with honey of sought joy
And do not me the hive of love destroy.