Global Utilities

Mary Wroth's Poetry: An Electronic Edition

Wroth Poem - F52 - Good now bee still, and doe nott mee torment

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45.

Good now bee still, and doe nott mee torment
    wt multituds of questions, bee att rest,
    and only lett mee quarrell wt my brest
    wch still letts in new stormes my ſoule to rent;

Fy, will you still my miſchiefs more augment?
    you ſay I anſwere croſs, I that confest
    long ſince, yett must I euer bee oprest
    wth yor toungue torture wch will ne're bee spent?

Well then I ſee noe way butt this will fright
    that Diuell speach; Alas I ame poſsest,
    and mad folks ſenceles ar of wiſdomes right,

The hellish spiritt abſence doth arest
    all my poore ſences to his cruell might
    spare mee then till I ame my ſelf, and blest
45.

Good now be still, and do not me torment
    With multitudes* of questions; be at rest,
    And only let me quarrel with my breast
    Which still lets in new storms my soul to rent.

Fie, will you still my mischiefs more augment?
    You say I answer cross, I that confessed
    Long since, yet must I ever be oppressed
    With your tongue-torture which will ne'er be spent?

Well then I see no way but this will fright
    That Devil speech; alas I am possessed,
    And mad folks senseless are of wisdom's right,

The hellish spirit absence doth arrest
    All my poor senses to his cruel might;
    Spare me then till I am myself, and blest.


'multitudes' = 'multitude' in P.

Roberts [P52] notes a parallel with AS 14:

    Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,
    Upon whose breast a fiercer grip doth tire
    Than did on him who first stale down the fire,
    While Love on me doth all his quiver spend,
    But with your rhubarb words ye must contend
    To grieve me worse
45.

Good now be ſtill, and doe not me torment,
    With multitude of queſtions, be at reſt,
    And onely let me quarrell with my breaſt,
    Which ſtil lets in new ſtormes my ſoule to rent.

Fye, will you ſtill my miſchiefes more augment?
    You ſay, I anſwere croſſe, I that confeſt
    Long ſince, yet muſt I euer be oppreſt,
    With your tongue torture which wil ne're be ſpent?

Well then I ſee no way but this will fright,
    That Deuill ſpeech; alas, I am poſſeſt,
    And madd folkes ſenſeles are of wiſdomes right,

The helliſh ſpirit, Abſence, doth arreſt.
    All my poore ſenſes to his cruell might,
    Spare me then till I am my ſelfe, and bleſt
45.

Good now be still, and do not me torment
    With multitude of questions; be at rest,
    And only let me quarrel with my breast
    Which still lets in new storms my soul to rent.

Fie, will you still my mischiefs more augment?
    You say I answer cross, I that confessed
    Long since, yet must I ever be oppressed
    With your tongue-torture which will ne'er be spent?

Well then I see no way but this will fright
    That Devil speech; alas I am possessed,
    And mad folks senseless are of wisdom's right,

The hellish spirit absence doth arrest
    All my poor senses to his cruel might;
    Spare me then till I am myself, and blest.



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