Wounded I sing, tormented I indite, 
Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest: 
Sorrow hath chang'd its note: such is his will 
Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best. 
For well he knows, if but one grief and smart 
Among my many had his full career, 
Sure it would carry with it ev'n my heart, 
And both would run until they found a bier 
To fetch the body; both being due to grief. 
But he hath spoil'd the race; and giv'n to anguish 
One of Joy's coats, 'ticing it with relief 
To linger in me, and together languish. 
I live to shew his power, who once did bring 
My joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.