Book I, Metre I (I. T.): Boethius' Complaint

I that with youthful heat did verses write,
Must now my woes in doleful tunes indite.
My work is framed by Muses torn and rude,
And my sad cheeks are with true tears bedewed :
For these alone no terror could affray
From being partners of my weary way.
The art that was my young life's joy and glory
Becomes my solace now I'm old and sorry ;
Sorrow has filched my youth from me, the thief !
My days are numbered not by time but Grief.
Untimely hoary hairs cover my head,
And my loose skin quakes on my flesh half dead.
O happy death, that spareth sweetest years,
And comes in sorrow often called with tears.
Alas, how deaf is he to wretch's cries ;
And loath he is to close up weeping eyes ;
While trustless chance me with vain favours crowned,
That saddest hour my life had almost drowned :
Now she hath clouded her deceitful face,
My spiteful days prolong their weary race.
My friends, why did you count me fortunate ?
He that is fallen, ne'er stood in settled state.