How fast thou fliest, O Time, on Loves swift wings,
    To hopes of joy, that flatters our desire:
    Which to a Lover still contentment brings;
    Yet when we should injoy, thou dost retire.
Thou stay’st thy pace (false Time) from our desire
    When to our ill thou hast’st with Eagles wings:
    Slow only to make us see thy retire
    Was for Despaire, and harme, which sorrow brings.
O slake thy pace, and milder passe to Love,
    Be like the Bee, whose wings she doth but use
    To bring home profit; masters good to prove,
    Laden, and weary, yet againe pursues.
So lade thy selfe with hony of sweet joy,
And do not me the Hive of Love destroy.
Other works by Lady Mary Wroth...