Anne Wharton (1632?–1685)

HOW hardly I concealed my tears,

How oft did I complain!

When, many tedious days, my fears

Told me I loved in vain.

But now my joys as wild are grown,

And hard to be concealed;

Sorrow may make a silent moan,

But joy will be revealed.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,

To every stream and tree;

And bless the hollow murmuring rocks

For echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much joy

We want, we wish, believe;

’Tis hard such passion to destroy,

But easy to deceive.