XLVII

    I see, I hear, I feel, I know, I rue
      My fate, my fame, my pain, my loss, my fall,
      Mishap, reproach, disdain, a crown, her hue,
      Cruel, still flying, false, fair, funeral,
    To cross, to shame, bewitch, deceive, and kill
      My first proceedings in their flowing bloom. 
      My worthless pen fast chained to my will,
      My erring life through an uncertain doom,
    My thoughts that yet in lowliness do mount,
      My heart the subject of her tyranny;
      What now remains but her severe account
      Of murder’s crying guilt, foul butchery! 
    She was unhappy in her cradle breath,
    That given was to be another’s death.

    XLVIII

    “Murder!  O murder!” I can cry no longer. 
      “Murder!  O murder!” Is there none to aid me? 
      Life feeble is in force, death is much stronger;
      Then let me die that shame may not upbraid me;
    Nothing is left me now but shame or death. 
      I fear she feareth not foul murder’s guilt,
      Nor do I fear to lose a servile breath. 
      I know my blood was given to be spilt. 
    What is this life but maze of countless strays,
      The enemy of true felicity,
      Fitly compared to dreams, to flowers, to plays! 
      O life, no life to me, but misery! 
    Of shame or death, if thou must one,
    Make choice of death and both are gone.

    XLIX

    My cruel fortunes clouded with a frown,
      Lurk in the bosom of eternal night;
      My climbing thoughts are basely hauled down;
      My best devices prove but after-sight. 
    Poor outcast of the world’s exiled room,
      I live in wilderness of deep lament;
      No hope reserved me but a hopeless tomb,
      When fruitless life and fruitful woes are spent. 
    Shall Phoebus hinder little stars to shine,
      Or lofty cedar mushrooms leave to grow? 
      Sure mighty men at little ones repine,
      The rich is to the poor a common foe. 
    Fidessa, seeing how the world doth go,
    Joineth with fortune in my overthrow.

    L

    When I the hooks of pleasure first devoured,
      Which undigested threaten now to choke me,
      Fortune on me her golden graces showered;
      O then delight did to delight provoke me! 
    Delight, false instrument of my decay,
      Delight, the nothing that doth all things move,
      Made me first wander from the perfect way,
      And fast entangled me in the snares of love. 
    Then my unhappy happiness at first began,
      Happy in that I loved the fairest fair;
      Unhappily despised, a hapless man;
      Thus joy did triumph, triumph did despair. 
    My conquest is—­which shall the conquest gain?—­
    Fidessa, author both of joy and pain!

    LI