Classic Poem

LXXXVII

Such hap as I am happed in
Had never man of truth, I ween.
At me Fortune list to begin
To shew that never hath been seen —
A new kind of unhappiness.
Nor I cannot the thing I mean
Myself express.

Myself express my deadly pain,
That can I well if that might serve.
But why I have not help again,
That know I not unless I sterve
For hunger still amidst my food —
So granted is that I deserve
To do me good.

To do me good what may prevail?
For I deserve and not desire
And still of cold I me bewail
And raked am in burning fire.
For though I have — such is my lot —
In hand to help that I require,
It helpeth not.

It helpeth not but to increase
That that by proof can be no more:
That is the heat that cannot cease,
And that I have, to crave so sore.
What wonder is this greedy lust:
To ask and have, and yet therefore
Refrain I must.

Refrain I must, what is the cause?
Sure, as they say, ‘So hawks be taught.’
But in my case layeth no such clause
For with such craft I am not caught.
Wherefore I say, and good cause why,
With hapless hand no man hath raught
Such hap as I.