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Poem	When first I ended, then I first began, The more I travell'd, further from my rest, Where most I lost, there most of all I wan, Pined with hunger rising from a feast. Methinks I fly, yet want I legs to go, Wise in conceit, in act a very sot, Ravish'd with joy amid a hell of woe; What most I seem, that surest am I not. I build my hopes a world above the sky, Yet with the mole I creep into the earth; In plenty I am starv'd with penury, And yet I surfeit in the greatest dearth. I have, I want, despair and yet desire, Burn'd in a sea of ice and drown'd amidst a fire.
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