More than I, if truth were told

Have stood and sweated hot and cold. And through their reins in ice and fire, fear contended with desire. Agued once like me were they, I like them shall win my way. Lastly to the bed of mould, where there's neither heat nor cold. But from my grave across my brow, plays no wind of healing now. And fire and ice within me fight, beneath the suffocating night.