The poem
Wounded I sing, tormented I indite, Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest: Sorrow hath chang'd its note: such is his will Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best. For well he knows, if but one grief and smart Among my many had his full career, Sure it would carry with it ev'n my heart, And both would run until they found a bier To fetch the body; both being due to grief. But he hath spoil'd the race; and giv'n to anguish One of Joy's coats, 'ticing it with relief To linger in me, and together languish. I live to shew his power, who once did bring My joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.