Classic Poem

CCXXVI

Desire to sorrow doth me constrain,
Daily increasing my smart and pain.
I see there is no remedy plain
But patience.

Despair doth put himself in press
To cause my sorrows to increase.
I trust at last that it will cease
By patience.

Good hope doth bid me be content
And not myself thus to torment,
Promising me my whole intent
Through patience.

I will not strive against the tide
For well I see, who doth abide,
That sufferance to heart's desire is guide
By patience.