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And thereto hath a truth as just,
I could rehearse, if that I would,
I know she swore, with raging mind,
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
SONNETS. FROM Tuscane came my Lady's worthy race;
Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat; The Western Isle, whose pleasant shore doth face Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat ; Fostered she was, with milk of Irish breast : Her Sire an earl, her Dame of princes' blood; From tender years in Britain she doth rest With King's child, where she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to my eyne;
me e'en where the Sun doth parch the green, Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice; In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen; In presence press'd of people, mad or wise; Set me in high, or yet in low degree;
In longest night, or in the shortest day;
LAS! so all things now do hold their peace, Heaven and earth disturbed in nothing; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease; The night's chair now the stars about doth bring; Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less! So am not I; whom Love, alas! doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires; whereas I weep and sing," In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case: For my sweet thoughts, some time do pleasure bring But, by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting; When that I think what grief it is, again, To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
Y lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun : And when this song is sung and past, My lute be still, for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection: So that I am past remedy, Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil which thou hast got Of simple Hearts through Love's shot, By whom (unkind!) thou hast them won Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain That makest but game on earnest pain: Think not alone under the Sun Unquit to cause thy Lover's plaine, Although my lute and I have done. May chance thee lie withered and old In winter nights that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon; Thy wishes then dare not be told, Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy Lover's sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute: this is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And ended is that we begun ; Now is this Song both sung and past, My lute be still, for I have done.
SIR THOMAS WYAT.
SINCE love will needs that I must love,
And since no chance may it remove,
I shall always myself apply,
To serve and suffer patiently.
Though for good-will I find but hate,
There is no grief, no smart, no woe,
I do profess it willingly,
YOUR looks so often cast,
Your eyes so friendly roll'd,
Fain would ye find a cloak
A Man may live thrice Nestor's life,
Thrice wander out Ulysses' race, Yet never find Ulysses' wife;
Such change hath chanced in this case! Less age will serve than Paris had,
Small pain (if none be small enow) To find good store of Helen's trade;
Such sap the root doth yield the bough! For one good wife, Ulysses slew
A worthy knot of gentle blood : For one ill wife, Greece overthrew
The town of Troy. Sith bad and good Bring mischief, Lord let be thy will To keep me free from either ill!
Of things that live in grief,
Whereas they find relief. The chaced deer hath soil,
To cool him in his heat; The ass, after his weary toil,
In stable is up set.
The little bird its nest,
At all times as they list.
Lies lurking in the leaves; The sparrow, in the froscy night,
May shroud her in the eaves. But, woe to me, alas !
In sun, nor yet in shade, I cannot find a resting-place
My burthen to unlade.