My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things.
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!. . . This love feel I.
It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou;"
For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.