Short is my rest
Short is my rest, whose toil is over long;
My joys are dark, but clear is seen my woe;
In safety small, great wracks I bide through wrong;
Whose time is swift, and yet my hope but slow.
Each grief and wound in my poor soul appears
That laugheth hours and weepeth many years.
Deeds of the day are fables for the night;
Sighs of desire are smokes of thoughtful tears;
My steps are false although my path is right;
Disgrace is bold, my favor full of fears.
Disquiet sleep keeps audit of my life,
Where rare content doth make displeasure rife.
The doleful clock, which is the voice of Time,
Calls on my end before my hap is seen;
Thus falls my hopes, whose harms have power to climb,
Not come to have which long in wish have been.
I trust your love, and fear not others' hate;
Be you with me and I have Caesar's fate.