Classic Poem

LXXXI

The restful place, reviver of my smart,
The labour's salve, increasing my sorrow,
The body's ease and troubler of my heart,
Quieter of mind and my unquiet foe,
Forgetter of pain, remembering my woe,
The place of sleep wherein I do but wake,
Besprent with tears, my bed, I thee forsake.

The frost, the snow, may not redress my heat
Nor yet no heat abate my fervent cold.
I know nothing to ease my pains meet:
Each cure causeth increase by twenty fold,
Reviving cares upon my sorrows old.
Such overthwart affects — they do me make,
Besprent with tears, my bed for to forsake.
Yet helpeth it not. I find no better ease
In bed or out. This most causeth my pain:
Where most I seek how best that I may please,
My lost labour, alas, is all in vain
Yet that I gave I cannot call again.
No place from me my grief can take,
Wherefore with tears, my bed, I thee forsake.