Sonnet XXVIII, by
William Shakespeare
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarred the benefit of rest,
When
day's oppression is not eased by night,
But day by
night and night by day oppressed,
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to
torture me,
The one by
toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee?
I tell the day to please him thou art bright,
And do'st him grace when clouds do blot the heaven;
So flatter I the
swart-complexioned night
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But
day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
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