[No time, no roome, no thought, or writing can]
No time, no roome, no thought, or writing can
Give rest, or quiet to my loving heart,
Or can my memory, or Phant’sie scan,
The measure of my still renewing smart.
Yet would I not (deare Love) thou should’st depart,
But let my passions as they first began,
Rule, wound, and please, it is thy choysest Art,
To give disquiet, which seemes ease to man.
When all alone, I thinke upon thy paine,
How thou dost travell our best selves to gaine,
Then houerly thy lessons I doe learne;
Thinke on thy glory, which shall still ascend,
Untill the world came to a final end,
And then shall we thy lasing powre dicerne.
