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Mary Wroth's Poetry: An Electronic Edition

Wroth Poem - F11 - The weary traueller who tired ſought

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.10.

The weary traueller who tired ſought
    In places distant farr, yett found noe end
    of paine, or labour, nor his state to mend,
    att last wt ioy is to his home back brought;

Finds nott more eaſe, though hee wth ioy bee fraught;
    when past is feare, content like ſoules aſsend;
    then I, on whom new pleaſures doe deſsend.
    wch now as high as first borne bliſs is wrought;

Hee tired wt his paines, I, wt my mind;
    hee all content receaues by eaſe of limms;
    I, greatest hapines that I doe find
    beeleefe for fayth, while hope in pleaſure ſwimms;

Truth ſays t'was wrong conſeite bred my deſpite
wch once acknowledg'd, brings my harts delight;
10.

The weary traveller who tired sought
    In places distant far, yet found no end
    Of pain, or labour, nor his state to mend,
    At last with joy is to his home back brought,

Finds not more ease, though he with joy be fraught,
    When past is* fear, content like souls ascend,
    Than I, on whom new pleasures do descend,
    Which now as high as first-born bliss is wrought;

He tired with his pains, I, with my mind;
    He all content receives by ease of limbs;
    I, greatest happiness that I do find
    Belief for faith, while hope in pleasure swims;

Truth says* 'twas wrong conceit bred my despite
    Which once acknowledged, brings my heart's delight.


'is' = 'his' in P
'says' = 'saith' in P
10.

The weary Traueller, who tyred, ſought
    In places diſtant farre, yet found no end
    Of paine or labour, nor his ſtate to mend:
    At laſt with ioy is to his home backe brought.

Findes not more eaſe though he with ioy be fraught,
    When paſt his feare content like ſoules aſcend:
    Then I, on whom new pleaſures doe deſcend,
    Which now as high as firſt-borne bliſſe is wrought.

He tyred with his paines, I with my minde;
    He all content receiues by eaſe of lymbs:
    I, greateſt happineſſe that I doe finde,
    Beliefe for faith, while hope in pleaſure ſwimmes.

Truth saith 'twas wrong conceit bred my deſpight,
Which once acknowledg'd, brings my hearts delight.
10.

The weary traveller who tired sought
    In places distant far, yet found no end
    Of pain, or labour, nor his state to mend,
    At last with joy is to his home back brought,

Finds not more ease, though he with joy be fraught,
    When past his fear, content like souls ascend,
    Than I, on whom new pleasures do descend,
    which now as high as first-born bliss is wrought;

He tired with his pains, I, with my mind;
    He all content receives by ease of limbs;
    I, greatest happiness that I do find
    Belief for faith, while hope in pleasure swims;

Truth saith 'twas wrong conceit bred my despite
    Which once acknowledged, brings my heart's delight.



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