- by Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done;
I fear and hope, I burn and freeze like ice;
I fly aloft yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I seize on,
That locks nor looseth, holdeth me in prison,
And holds me not, yet can I 'scape no wise:
Nor letteth me live, nor die at my devise,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eye I see; without tongue I plain:
I wish to perish yet I ask for health;
I love another, and I hate myself;
I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain.
Lo, thus displeaseth me both death and life;
And my delight is causer of this strife.