34 Poem by Mary Wroth

You blessed shades, which give me silent rest,
Witnes but this when death hath clos'd mine eyes,
And separated me from earthly tyes;
Being from hence to higher places adrest.
How oft in you I have laine heere opprest?
And have my miseries in wofull cryes
Deliver'd forth, mounting up to the Skyes?
Yet helplesse, backe return'd to wound my brest,
Which wounds did but strive how to breed more harm
To me, who can be cur'd by no one charme
But that of Love, which yet may me releeve;
If not, let Death my former paines redeeme,
My trusty friends, my faith untouch'd, esteeme,
And witnesse I could love, who so could grieve