Pined I am and like to die

Pined I am and like to die,
And all for lack of that which I
Do every day refuse.
If I musing sit or stand,
Some puts it daily in my hand.
To interrupt my muse:
The same thing I seek and fly,
And want that which none would deny.

In my bed, when I should rest,
It breeds such trouble in my breast
That scarce mine eyes will close;
If I sleep it seems to be
Oft playing in the bed with me,
But, waked, away it goes.
'Tis some spirit sure, I ween,
And yet it may be felt and seen.

Would I had the heart and wit
To make it stand and conjure it,
That haunts me thus with fear.
Doubtless 'tis some harmless sprite,
For it by day as well as night
Is ready to appear.
Be it friend, or be it foe,
Ere long I'll try what it will do.