Classic Poem

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 stormed be!
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest me
To steal some rest, but wretch I am constrained
(Spurred with love's spur, though galled 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.