Reflections From the Tower

The stormes are past, these cloudes are ouerblowne,
And humble chere great rygour hath represt.
For the defaute is set a paine foreknowne,
And pacience graft in a determed brest.
And in the hart where heapes of griefes were grown,
The swete reuenge hath planted mirth and rest;
No company so pleasant as myne owne.
Thraldom at large hath made this prison fre;
Danger well past, remembred, workes delight.
Of lingring doutes such hope is sprong, per die!
That nought I finde displeasaunt in my sight
But when my glasse presented vnto me
The curelesse wound that bledeth day and night.
To think, alas! such hap should graunted be
Vnto a wretch that hath no hart to fight,
To spill that blood that hath so oft bene shed
For Britannes sake, alas! and now is ded.