Mercy's Quill

August 1691

I borrowed a book of poems from a family in Boston that Papa knows, written by Lady Mary Wroth. Many lovely verses within its pagea. O, but this one that I shall copy here in my own little book so I shan't forget it. So sad. Love she gave and it was handed back to her. Poor thing. I hope 'twas only a season:

Drown me not, you cruel tears,
Which in sorrow witness bears
Of my wailing,
And love's failing.

Floods but cover and retire,
Washing faces of desire,
Whose fresh growing
Springs by flowing.

Meadows ever yet did love
Pleasant streams which by them move,
But your falling
Claims the calling

Of a torrent curstly fierce
Past wit's power to rehearse;
Only crying, Or my dying
May instead of verse or prose
My disastrous end disclose.