Lament XVI

Misfortune hath constrainèd me
To leave the lute and poetry,
Nor can I from their easing borrow
Sleep for my sorrow.
Do I see true, or hath a dream
Flown forth from ivory gates to gleam
In phantom gold, before forsaking
Its poor cheat, waking?
Oh, mad, mistaken humankind,
’Tis easy triumph for the mind
While yet no ill adventure strikes us
And naught mislikes us.