Classic Poem

CCXXII

O, what undeserved cruelty
Hath Fortune showed unto me
When all my wealth, joy, and felicity
Are turned to me most contrary!

My joy is woe, my pleasure pain,
My ease is travail. What remedy?
My mirth is mourning, hope is in vain.
Thus all thing turneth clean contrary.

The place of sleep that should my rest restore
Is unto me an unquiet enemy
And most my woe reneweth evermore.
Thus all thing turneth to me contrary.

I burn for cold, I starve for heat.
That lust liketh, desire doth it deny.
I fast from joy, sorrow is my meat.
Thus every joy turneth to me contrary.

The place of my refuge is my exile.
In Disdain's prison desperate I lie,
There to abide the time and woeful while
Till my careful life may turn contrary.