The sun hath twice brought forth the tender green, And clad the earth in lively lustiness; Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean,
And now again begins their cruelness, Since I have hid under my breast the harm That never shall recover healthfulness.
The winter's hurt recovers with the warm; The parched green restored is with shade; What warmth, alas, may serve for to disarm The frozen heart that mine in flame hath made? What cold again is able to restore My fresh green years that wither thus and fade?
Alas,
I see nothing to hurt so sore But time sometime reduceth a return; Yet time my harm increaseth more and more,
And seem to have my cure always in scorn. Strange kind of death in life that I do try, At hand to melt, far off in flame to burn;
And like as time list to my cure apply, So doth each place my comfort clean refuse. Each thing alive, that sees the heaven with eye,
With cloak of night may cover and excuse Himself from travail of the day's unrest, Save I, alas, against all others use,
That then stir up the torment of my breast To curse each star as causer of my fate. And when the sun hath eke the dark repressed And brought the day, it doth nothing abate The travail of my endless smart and pain. For then, as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night, more covertly to plain And me withdraw from every haunted place, Lest in my cheer my chance should 'pear too plain;
And with my mind I measure, pace by pace, To seek that place where I myself had lost, That day that I was tangled in that lace,
In seeming slack that knitteth ever most; But never yet the travail of my thought Of better state could catch a cause to boast.
For if I find that sometime that I have sought Those stars by whom I trusted of the port, My sails do fall, and I advance right naught,
As anchored fast; my sprites do all resort To stand atgaas*, and sink in more and more [gazing] The deadly harm which she doth take in sport.
Lo, if I seek, how I do find my sore. And if I fly,
I carry with me still The venomed shaft which doth his force restore By haste of flight.
And I may plain my fill Unto myself, unless this careful song Print in your heart some parcel of my will.
For I, alas, in silence all too long Of mine old hurt yet feel the wound but green. Rue on my life, or else your cruel wrong Shall well appear, and by my death be seen.
