BONUM EST MIHI QUOD HUMILIASTI ME by HENRY HOWARD

The storms are past, these clouds are overblown,
And humble cheer great rigor hath repressed;
For the default is set a pain foreknown,
And patience graft in a determed breast.
And in the heart where heaps of griefs were grown
The sweet revenge hath planted mirth and rest;
No company so pleasant as mine own.
. . .
Thralldom at large hath made this prison free;
Danger well past rememb'red works delight.
Of ling'ring doubts such hope is sprung, pardie,
That naught I find displeasant in my sight
But when my glass presented unto me
The cureless wound that bleedeth day and night.
To think, alas, such hap should granted be
Unto a wretch that hath no heart to fight,
To spill that blood that hath so oft been shed
For Britain's sake, alas, and now is dead.

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