XCVIII.
Ah, bed! the field where joy's peace some do see;
The field where all my thoughts to war be trained:
How is thy grace by my strange fortune stained!
How thy lee shores by my sighs stormèd be!
With sweet soft shades, thou oft invitest me
To steal some rest; but, wretch! I am constrained—
Spurred with LOVE'S spur, though gold; and shortly reined
With CARE'S hard hand—to turn and toss in thee!
While the black horrors of the silent night
Paint WOE'S black face so lively to my sight;
That tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line.
But when AURORA leads out PHOEBUS' dance,
Mine eyes then only wink: for spite perchance;
That worms should have their sun, and I want mine.
XCIX.
When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye,
To whom nor art nor nature granteth light;
To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight,
Closed with their quivers, in sleep's armoury:
With windows ope then most my mind doth lie,
Viewing the shape of darkness and delight;
Takes in that sad hue, which with th'inward night
Of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony.
But when birds charm, and that sweet air which is
Morn's messenger, with rose-enamelled skies,
Call each wight to salute the hour of bliss;
In tomb of lids, then buried are mine eyes:
Forced by their lord; who is ashamed to find
Such light in sense, with such a darkened mind.
