To Lope de Urrea, whose estate
Was to supply the much he miss’d of youth.
We married—like December wed to May,
Or flower of earliest summer set in snow;
Yet heaven witness that I honour’d, ay,
And loved him; though with little cause of love,
And ever cold returns; but I went on
Doing my duty toward him, hoping still
To have a son to fill the gaping void
That lay between us—yea, I pray’d for one