FROM
I d e a.
by Michael Drayton
LXII.
WHEN first I ended, then I first began,
The more I travelled, further from my rest,
Where most I lost, there most of all I wan,
Pinèd with hunger rising from a feast.
Methinks I fly, yet want I legs to go,
Wise in conceit, in act a very sot,
Ravished with joy amid a hell of woe ;
What most I seem, that surest am I not.
I build my hopes a world above the sky,
Yet with the mole I creep into the earth,
In plenty I am starved with penury,
And yet I surfeit in the greatest dearth ;
I have, I want, despair and yet desire,
Burned in a sea of ice and drowned amidst a fire.
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Michael Drayton
