I find no peace, and all my warre is done:
I feare, and hope: I burne, and frese like yse:
I flye aloft, yet can I not arise:
And nought I haue, and all the worlde I season.
That lockes nor loseth, holdeth me in pryson,
And holdes me not, yet can I scape no wise:
Nor lettes me lyue, nor dye, at my deuise,
And yet of death it geueth me occasion.
Without eye I se, without tong I playne:
I wish to perysh, yet I aske for helth:
I loue another, and thus I hate my selfe.
I fede me in sorrow, and laugh in all my payne.
Lo, thus displeaseth me both death and life.
And my delight is causer of this strife.

—

Tr. Sir Thomas Wyatt