Would my conceit that first enforc'd my woe,
Or else mine eyes which still the same increase,
Might be extinct, to end my sorrows so
Which now are such as nothing can release:
Whose life is death, and eke whose change,
Each change of sour, and eke whose hell reneweth every hour.
Each hour amidst the deep of hell I fry,
Each hour I waste and wither where I sit,
But that sweet hour wherein I wish to die,
My hope alas may not enjoy it yet,
Whose hope is such bereaved, of the bliss,
Which unto all save me allotted is.
To all save me is free to live or die,
To all save me remaineth hap or hope,
But all perforce, I must abandon it,
Sith Fortune still directs my hap a slope,
Wherefore to neither hap nor hope I trust,
But to my thralls I yield, for so I must.
