XCVIII. Ah, bed! the field where joy’s peace some do see

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

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 PHŒBUS’ dance,

Mine eyes then only wink: for spite perchance;

That worms should have their sun, and I want mine.