Yet though I struggle still to find a voice,
To make that struggle is, for me, no choice;
It is in labor long that I rejoice,
And ease gives me no ease when work’s to do.
Though I still struggle, I will bear it through
Until it’s done; I otherwise would rue
The time I’d spend in being at my ease,
Lying idle as others well might please.
I know that working so is a disease
With which the Stupid God’s infected me;
No cure for it is placed where I can see,
So I know I will not from it be free.
Yet I can turn that illness to my gain,
As I in verse by showing might explain.
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