No glory makes me glorious or glad,
Nor pleasure may to pleasure me dispose,
No comfort can revive my senses sad,
Nor hope enfranchise me with one repose.
Nor in her absence taste I one delight,
Nor in her presence am I well content;
Was never time gave term to my despite,
Nor joy that dried the tears of my lament.
Nor hold I hope of weal in memory,
Nor have I thought to change my restless grief,
Nor doth my conquest yield me sovereignty,
Nor hope repose, nor confidence relief.
For why? She sorts her frowns and favours so,
As when I gain or lose I cannot know.