The Countesse of Mountgomeries Urania Written by the right honorable the Lady Mary Wroath |
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[Blame me not dearest, though grieued for your sake] |
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 | The Countesse of Mountgomeries Urania |  |
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[Blame me not dearest, though grieued for your sake]
Blame
me not dearest, though grieued for your sake,
Loue mild to you, on me triumphing sits,
Sifting the choysest ashes of my wits,
Burnt like a Phænix, change but such could shake.
Loue mild to you, on me triumphing sits,
Sifting the choysest ashes of my wits,
Burnt like a Phænix, change but such could shake.
And a new heat, giuen by your eyes did make
Embers dead cold, call Spirits from the pits
Of darke despaire, to fauour new felt fits,
And as from death to this new choice to wake.
Embers dead cold, call Spirits from the pits
Of darke despaire, to fauour new felt fits,
And as from death to this new choice to wake.
Loue thus crownes you with power, scorne not the flames,
Though not the first, yet which as purely ries
As the best light, which sets vnto our eyes,
And then againe ascends free from all blames.
Though not the first, yet which as purely ries
As the best light, which sets vnto our eyes,
And then againe ascends free from all blames.
Purenesse is not alone in one fix'd place,
Who dies to liue, finds change a happy grace.
Who dies to liue, finds change a happy grace.
| The Countesse of Mountgomeries Urania | |