Like to a hermit poor in place obscure
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,
To wail such woes as time cannot recure,
Where none but Love shall ever find me out.
My food shall be of care and sorrow made,
My drink nought else but tears fall'n from mine eyes;
And for my light in such obscurëd shade,
The flames shall serve wich from my heart arise.
A gown of gray my body shall attire,
My staff of broken hope whereon I'll stay;
Of late repentance linked with long desire
The couch is framed whereon my limbs I'll lay;
And at my gate despair shall linger still
To let in death when love and fortune will.
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