 | A Margarite of America |  |
[I pine away expecting of the houre]
I pine away expecting of the houre,Which through my waiward chance will not arriue,
I waite the word, by whose sweete sacred power,
My lost contents may soone be made aliue:
My pensiue heart, for feare my griefe should perish,
Vpon fallacious hope his fast appeaseth;
And to my selfe my frustrate thoughts to cherish,
I faine a good that flits before it ceaseth:
And as the ship farre scattred from the port,
All welnie spent and wreckt with wretched blast,
From East to West, midst surging seas is tossed,
So I, whose soule by fierce delaies effort,
Is ouercome in heart and lookes defast,
Runne heere, runne there, sigh, die, by sorrow crossed.
| A Margarite of America | |