I hope, I fear, resolved, and yet I doubt, I'm cold as ice, and yet I burn as fire; I wot not what, and yet I much desire, And trembling too, am desperately stout.
Times daily change and we likewise in them; Things out of sight do straight forgotten die.
To love and be beloved, this is the good, Which for most sovereign all the world will prove.
Although my hap be hard, my heart is high.
Of all the tyrants that the world affords, Our own affections are the fiercest lords.
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What thing so good which not some harm may bring? Even to be happy is a dangerous thing.
Death is the port where all may refuge find, The end of labour, entry unto rest.
What life refused, to gain by death he thought: For life and death are but indifferent things, And of themselves not to be shunned nor sought, But for the good or ill that either brings.
The weaker sex, to piety more prone
O if thou knew’st how thou thyself dost harm, And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest; Then thou would’st melt the ice out of thy breast And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.