My cruel fortunes clouded with a frown,
Lurk in the bosom of eternal night;
My climbing thoughts are basely haulèd down;
My best devices prove but after-sight.
Poor outcast of the world's exilèd room,
I live in wilderness of deep lament;
No hope reserved me but a hopeless tomb,
When fruitless life and fruitful woes are spent.
Shall Phoebus hinder little stars to shine,
Or lofty cedar mushrooms leave to grow?
Sure mighty men at little ones repine,
The rich is to the poor a common foe.
Fidessa, seeing how the world doth go,
Joineth with fortune in my overthrow.
L
When I the hooks of pleasure first devoured,
Which undigested threaten now to choke me,
Fortune on me her golden graces showered;
O then delight did to delight provoke me!
Delight, false instrument of my decay,
Delight, the nothing that doth all things move,
Made me first wander from the perfect way,
And fast entangled me in the snares of love.
Then my unhappy happiness at first began,
Happy in that I loved the fairest fair;
Unhappily despised, a hapless man;
Thus joy did triumph, triumph did despair.
My conquest is--which shall the conquest gain?--
Fidessa, author both of joy and pain!