THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.
1 I see there is no sort
Of things that live in grief,
Which at sometime may not resort
Where as they have relief.
2 The stricken deer by kind
Of death that stands in awe,
For his recure an herb can find
The arrow to withdraw.
3 The chased deer hath soil
To cool him in his heat;
The ass, after his weary toil.
In stable is up set.
4 The coney hath its cave,
The little bird his nest,
From heat and cold themselves to save
At all times as they list.
5 The owl, with feeble sight,
Lies lurking in the leaves,
The sparrow in the frosty night
May shroud her in the eaves.
6 But woe to me, alas!
In sun nor yet in shade,
I cannot find a resting-place,
My burden to unlade.
7 But day by day still bears
The burden on my back,
With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears,
To hold my hope aback.
8 All things I see have place
Wherein they bow or bend,
Save this, alas! my woful case,
Which nowhere findeth end.