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Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill,
      Complain no more; for these, O heart,
Direct the random of the will
      As rhymes direct the rage of art.

The lute’s fixt fret, that runs athwart
      The strain and purpose of the string,
For governance and nice consort
      Doth bar his wilful wavering.

The dark hath many dear avails;
      The dark distils divinest dews;
The dark is rich with nightingales,
      With dreams, and with the heavenly Muse.

Bleeding with thorns of petty strife,
      I’ll ease (as lovers do) my smart
With sonnets to my lady Life
      Writ red in issues from the heart.

What grace may lie within the chill
      Of favor frozen fast in scorn!
When Good’s a-freeze, we call it Ill!
      This rosy Time is glacier-born.

Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill,
      Complain thou not, O heart; for these
Bank-in the current of the will
      To uses, arts, and charities.