Marywroth(1587–1651?)

Sonnet 22

Like to the Indians, scorched with the sun,3

The sun which they do as their God adore,

So am I used by love, for ever more

I worship him, less favors have I won;4

Better are they who thus to blackness run,

And so can only whiteness' want deplore5

Than I who pale, and white am with griefs' store,

Nor can have hope, but to see hopes undone;6

Besides their sacrifice received's in sight

Of their chose 0 saint, mine hid as worthless rite; 7chosen

Grant me to see where I my off rings give,

Then let me wear the mark of Cupid's might

In heart as they in skin of Phoebus' light,8

Not ceasing off'rings to love while I live.