The pain that never hopes to find repose;
But, though it never cease, and seek to wrong
My health and honour, yet, amidst my woes,
My faith, as ever, shall more steadfast be
Than firmest rock amidst the angry sea.
The moisture that my weeping eyes distil,
The duteous service that my tongue can do,
The sacrifice I offer of my will,
The happiness that to my toil is due,
These gain sweet spoil and recompense; but still,