Fair is my yoke, though grievous be my pains,

[ZaunköniG]

Fair is my yoke, though grievous be my pains,
Sweet are my wounds, although they deeply smart,
My bit is gold, though shortened be the reins,
My bondage brave, though I may not depart:
Although I burn, the fire which doth impart
Those flames, so sweet reviving force contains,
That, like Arabia's bird, my wasted heart,
Made quick by death, more lively still remains.
I joy, though oft my waking eyes spend tears,
I never want delight, even when I groan,
Best companied when most I am alone;
A heaven of hopes I have midst hells of fears.
Thus every way contentment strange I find,
But most in her rare beauty, my rare mind.