Not that I holde, the day in more delight, But that alike, I loath both day and night.
(25) The day I see, yeelds but increase to care, The night that should, by nature serue to rest, Against hir kinde, denies such ease to spare, As pitie would affoord the soule opprest, And broken sleepes oft times present in sight, (30) A dreaming wish, beguild with false delight.
The sleepe, or else what so for sweete appeeres, +Is vnto me but pleasure in despite, The flowre of age, the name of yonger yeeres, Doe but vsurpe the title of delite, (35) For carefull thought, and sorow sundry waies, Consumes my youth, before my aged daies.
The touch, the sting, the torment of desire, To striue beyond the compas of restraint, Kept from the reach whereto it would aspire, (40) Giues cause (God knowes) too iust to my complaint, Besides the wrongs, which now with my distresse, My meaning is, in silence to suppresse.
Oft with my selfe, I enter in deuice, To reconcile these wearie thoughts to peace, (45) I treat for truce, I flatter and entice, My wrangling wits, to worke for their release, But all in vaine, I seeke the meanes to finde, That might appease, the discord of my minde.
For when I force a fained mirth in shoe, (50) And would forget, and so beguile my greefe, I cannot rid my selfe of sorow so, Altho I feede vpon a false beleefe, For inward touch of vncontented minde, Returns my cares, by course vnto their kinde.