I find no peace

. . . Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain;

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;

I love another, and thus I hate myself;

I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain.

Likewise displeaseth me both death and life,

And my delight is causer of this strife.

The sestet of a deft sonnet  by Sir Thomas Wyatt.

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