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Mary Wroth's Poetry: An Electronic Edition

Wroth Poem - F67 - Truly poore Night thou wellcome art to mee

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F67 F67mod P17 P17mod

2.

Truly poore Night thou wellcome art to mee:
    I loue thee better in this ſad attire
    then yt wch raiſeth ſome mens phant'ſies higher
    like painted outſids wch foule inward bee;

I loue thy graue, and ſaddest lookes to ſee,
    wch ſeems my ſoule, and dying hart intire,
    like to the ashes of ſome happy fire
    that flam'd in ioy, butt quench'd in miſerie;

I loue thy count'nance, and thy ſober=pace
    wch euenly goes, and as of louing grace
    to vſs, and mee among the rest oprest

Giues quiet, peace to my poore ſelf alone,
    and freely grants day leaue when thou art gone
    to giue cleere light to ſee all ill redrest;
Sonnet 2

Truly poor Night thou welcome art to me:
    I love thee better in this sad attire
    Than that which raiseth some men's fancies higher
    Like painted outsides which foul inward be;

I love thy grave and saddest looks to see,
    Which seems my soul, and dying heart entire,
    Like to the ashes of some happy fire
    That flamed in joy, but quenched in misery;

I love thy countenance, and thy sober pace
    Which evenly goes, and as of loving grace
    To us, and me among the rest oppressed

Gives quiet, peace to my poor self alone,
    And freely grants day leave when thou art gone
    To give clear light to see all ill redressed.


This sonnet is moved to become Number 15 in the first sequence in P. In F, it follows the previous sonnet in its treatment of night.
15.

Truely (poore night) thou welcome art to me,
    I loue thee better in this ſad attire
    Then that which rayſeth ſome mens fant'ſies higher,
    Like painted outſides, which foule inward be.

I loue thy graue and ſaddeſt lookes to ſee,
    Which ſeems my ſoule and dying heart entire,
    Like to the aſhes of ſome happy fire,
    That flam'd in ioy, but quench'd in miſery.

I loue thy count'nance, and thy ſober pace,
    Which euenly goes, and as of louing grace
    To vs, and mee, among the reſt oppreſt,

Giues quiet peace to my poore ſelfe alone,
    And freely grants day leaue; when thou art gone,
    To giue cleare light, to ſee all ill redreſt.
15.

Truly poor Night thou welcome art to me:
    I love thee better in this sad attire
    Than that which raiseth some men's fancies higher
    Like painted outsides which foul inward be;

I love thy grave and saddest looks to see,
    Which seems my soul, and dying heart entire,
    Like to the ashes of some happy fire
    That flamed in joy, but quenched in misery;

I love thy countenance, and thy sober pace
    Which evenly goes, and as of loving grace
    To us, and me among the rest oppressed.

Gives quiet, peace to my poor self alone,
    And freely grants day leave when thou art gone,
    To give clear light to see all ill redressed.



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