In the secret, in the quiet place.

There is no rest, is there, for the wicked?
Is there no where to lay thine sickened head,
thine weary heart
that weary hearted man that has no care
for care no longer hath him.
He, to care, and care to he, be dead.

Hope be to him alive, or alive not,
such petals plucked from withered stems
Have little sweat, and no maiden virtue.
To the listless, they are white
To the angered, patchy green,
But to the hopeless
The petals are best stayed upon their broken stem.

Sadness bringth sleep, it should be stayed.
Come never again, be stayed from me.