SIR THOMAS WYAT was born at Allington Castle, Kent, in the year 1503. He received his education both at Cambridge and Oxford, and having been recommended by his personal accomplishments and "wittie jests," to the favour of Henry the Eighth, he was frequently employed by that monarch on foreign missions; improving and strengthening his taste and his mind by travel, and familiar intercourse with the learned of other lands. He lost the confidence of his master in consequence of a suspicion of undue intimacy with Queen Anne Boleyn, and was imprisoned on a charge of treasonable commerce with Cardinal Pole. He recovered, however, both his liberty and the favour of the king; but retired to Allington, and only occasionally visited the court-because that

"A clogge did yet hang at his heele."

In one of his epistles, he has contrasted the pure enjoyments of a country life with the fawning and flattery of a court-"living thrall under the awe of lordly lookes" using "wyles for wit"-and making "the crow in singing as the swan:"

"At home to hunt and hawke,

And in fowle wether at my booke to sit;

In frost and snowe then with my bow to stalke;

No man doth marke whereso I ride or go:

In lusty leas at liberty 1 walke."

Wyat died early. Having been sent to conduct the ambassador of Charles the Fifth from Falmouth to London, he caught a fever on the road, by riding too hard on a hot day, and died at Sherborn, where he was buried, in 1542.

Wyat is styled by Wood "the delight of the Muses and of mankind." The portrait of the man, and the character of the Poet, have been given by his friend the Earl of Surrey. "A visage sterne and milde"-"a tong whose courteous talke to vertue did inflame"-" an eye whose piercing looke did represent a mynde with vertue fraught "— "A hart where dreade was never so imprest

To hyde the thought that might the trouth avaunce."

This is however but one of the many panegyrics of his contemporaries; all of whom describe him, and generally with more of truth than poetry, as one of the most excellent, accomplished, and upright of human kind. The graces of his person were in keeping with those of his mind. His countenance was of manly beauty; he was tall, elegantly formed, and of a commanding presence.

His poems, chiefly consisting of " songes and sonettes," were originally printed by Tottel in 1557, together with the works of Lord Surrey. Wyat has, with his friend Surrey, the merit of having "polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poesie;" -he was "one of the chief lanternes of light to all others that have since employed their pennes." According to the quaint old author, Puttenham, "their conceits were lofty, their styles stately, their conveyance cleanly, their terms proper, their meetre sweet and well proportioned." If, however, Wyat did "very naturally and studiously" imitate "his master, Francis Petrarch," he has been caught by the faults as well as the merits of the Italian Poet. The genius of Wyat was more didactic than fanciful. His love-verses abound in affectations; their meaning is frequently obscured by fantastic incongruities; and they have generally an artificial character, as if resulting from the studies of the courtier, rather than the impulse of the heart. His satiric epistles are his best productions; he is far less at home in "fabricating fine speeches" to an obdurate mistress, than in moralising on the felicities of retirement, or exposing the vices and vanities of a court. We love to find him

"in Kent and Christendome

Among the muses where I read and ryme."

and give to him far more of our love and sympathy than when comparing lovers' lives with the Alpes-describing his restless state-excusing himself of woordes wherewith he was unjustly charged-mistrusting allurements-or even when by a kiss he found both life and death. Sir Thomas Wyat appears to have wooed an "unkinde and unpiteous" love, but, from the tenor of his verse, it is little likely that he took the matter much to heart; he was rather "the lover who waxeth wyser, and will not dye for affection," than one who yields to despair, and will not be comforted even by the muse. It is to his praise that "the legacy of rhyme" he left posterity, is altogether free from impurities of word or thought.

THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE.

My Lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall wast:
And ende that I have now begunne,
And when this song is song and past,
My lute be styll for I have done.

As to be heard where eare is none,
As leade to grave in marble stone,
My song may pearce her hart as soon!
Should we then sigh, or sing, or mone,
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly,
Repulse the waves continually,

lofty, their styles stately, their conveyance cleanly, their terms proper, their meetre sweet and well proportioned." If, however, Wyat did “very naturally and studiously" imitate "his master, Francis Petrarch," he has been caught by the faults as well as the merits of the Italian Poet. The genius of Wyat was more didactic than fanciful. His love-verses abound in affectations; their meaning is frequently obscured by fantastic incongruities; and they have generally an artificial character, as if resulting from the studies of the courtier, rather than the impulse of the heart. His satiric epistles are his best productions; he is far less at home in "fabricating fine speeches" to an obdurate mistress, than in moralising on the felicities of retirement, or exposing the vices and vanities of a court. We love to find him

"in Kent and Christendome

Among the muses where I read and ryme."

and give to him far more of our love and sympathy than when comparing lovers' lives with the Alpes-describing his restless state-excusing himself of woordes wherewith he was unjustly charged-mistrusting allurements-or even when by a kiss he found both life and death. Sir Thomas Wyat appears to have wooed an "unkinde and unpiteous" love, but, from the tenor of his verse, it is little likely that he took the matter much to heart; he was rather "the lover who waxeth wyser, and will not dye for affection," than one who yields to despair, and will not be comforted even by the muse. It is to his praise that "the legacy of rhyme" he left posterity, is altogether free from impurities of word or thought.

My Lute, awake, perform the last Labour that thou and I shall wast: And ende that I have now begunne, And when this song is song and past, My lute be styll for I have done.

As to be heard where eare is none, As leade to grave in marble stone, My song may pearce her hart as soon! Should we then sigh, or sing, or mone, No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly, Repulse the waves continually,

As she my suite and affection :
So that I am past remedy,

Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proude of the spoyle that thou hast gotte,
Of simple hearts through Loves shot,
By whome unkind thou hast them wonne,
Think not he hath his bow forgott,
Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdaine
That makest but game of earnest payne,
Think not alone under the sunn,
Unquit to cause thy lovers playne,
Although my lute and I have done.

May chaunce thee lye withred and old,
In winter nights that are so cold,
Playning in vaine unto the moon:
Thy wishes then dare not be told!
Care then who list for I have done.

And then may chaunce thee to repent,
The time that thou hast lost and spent,
To cause thy lovers sighe and swone:
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 wast,
And ended is that we begonne,
Now is this song both song and past.
My lute be still for I have done.

THE LOVER DETERMINETH TO SERVE FAITHFULLY.

SINCE Love will needs, that I shall love, Of very force I must agree:

And since no chaunce may it remove,
In wealth and in adversitie,

I shall alway myselfe apply
To serve and suffer patiently.