Fortune alone doth us possess,
To shine upon with radiant flame,
Or torture us with vile excess,
For her own sport unfair.
Thus bound to joy or endless shame,
‘Tis strange that all do not depress,
Chained to a life so bare.

When walking through those valleys green,
Or through the streets under dark smoke,
Art thou not to be often seen,
Clasping another’s hand?
That is the carrying of thy yoke,
The water which our blood doth clean,
The sword that makes our stand.

A love which is not love but love,
That fealty swears and loyal keeps,
Off thee keeps thorns, so sweet a glove,
One which we cannot lend.
And when happiness with thee sleeps,
And with the world thou art a dove,
Remember him; your friend.