The man whose thoughts against him do conspire,

One whom mishapp her story doth depaint,

The man of woe, the matter of desire,

Free of the dead, that lives in endless plaint,

His spirit am I, which in this deserte lie,

To rue his case, whose cause I cannot fly.

Despair my name, who never finds relief,

Friended of none, but to myself a foe;

An idle care, maintained by firme belief

That praise of faith shall through my torments grow,

And count those hopes, that others’ hearts do ease,

But base conceits the common sense to please.

The happy good from whence my joys arise;

Nor have I power my sorrows to restrain.

But wail the want, when nought else may suffice;

Whereby my life the shape of death must bear, —

That death which feels the worst that life doth fear.

But what avails with tragical complaint,

Not hoping help, the Furies to awake?

Or why should I the happy minds acquaint

With doleful tunes, their settled peace to shake?

All ye that here behold Infortune’s fare,

May judge no woe may with my grief compare.