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 XCVIII.

Ah, bed! the field where joy's peace some do see; The field where all my thoughts to war be trained: How is thy grace by my strange fortune stained! How thy lee shores by my sighs stormèd be!

With sweet soft shades, thou oft invitest me To steal some rest; but, wretch! I am constrained— Spurred with LOVE'S spur, though gold; and shortly reined With CARE'S hard hand—to turn and toss in thee!

While the black horrors of the silent night Paint WOE'S black face so lively to my sight; That tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line.

But when AURORA leads out PHOEBUS' dance, Mine eyes then only wink: for spite perchance; That worms should have their sun, and I want mine.

XCIX.

When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye, To whom nor art nor nature granteth light; To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight, Closed with their quivers, in sleep's armoury:

With windows ope then most my mind doth lie, Viewing the shape of darkness and delight; Takes in that sad hue, which with th'inward night Of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony.

But when birds charm, and that sweet air which is Morn's messenger, with rose-enamelled skies, Call each wight to salute the hour of bliss;

In tomb of lids, then buried are mine eyes: Forced by their lord; who is ashamed to find Such light in sense, with such a darkened mind.