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In silent night when mortalls be at rest,
And bathe their molten limbs in slothful sleep,
My troubled ghost strange cares did straight molest,
And plucked my heavie soul in sorrow deep:
Large floods of tears my moistned cheeks did steep,
My heart was wounded with compassionate love
Of all the creatures: sadly out I creep
From men's close mansions, the more to improve
My mournfull plight; so softly on I forward move.

Aye me! said I, within my wearied breast,
And sighed sad, . . wherefore did God erect
This stage of misery? thrice, foure times West
Whom churlish Nature never did eject
From her dark womb, and cruelly object
By sense nnd life unto such balefull smart;
Every slight entrance into joy is checkt
By that soure step-dames threats, and visage tart:
Our pleasure of our pain is not the thousandth part.

Thus vex'd I was 'cause of mortality.
Her curst remembrance cast me in this plight.
That I grew sick of the world's vanity,
Ne ought recomfort could my sunken spright;
What so I hate may do me no delight,
Few things (alas!) I hate, the more my wo.
The things I love by mine own sad foresight.
Make me the greater torments undergo.
Because I know at last they're gone like idle show.