Mary Wroth
My pain, still smothered in my grieved breast,
Seeks for some ease, yet cannot passage find
To be discharged of this unwelcome guest;
When most I strive, more fast his burdens bind,
Like to a ship, on Goodwins cast by wind
The more she strives, more deep in sand is pressed
Till she bee lost; so am I, in this kind
Sunk, and devoured, and swallowed by unrest,
Lost, shipwrecked, spoiled, debarred of smallest hope,
Nothing of pleasure left; save thoughts have scope,
Which wander may: Go then, my thoughts, and cry
'Hope's perished; Love tempest-beaten; joy lost
Killing despair hath all these blessing crossed.'
Yet faith still cries, 'Love will not falsify.'