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THE

ENGLISH ANTHOLOGY.

PART THE FIRST.

THE LOVER COMPLAINETH OF THE UN

KINDNESS OF HIS LOVE.

BY SIR THOMAS WYATT.

My lute, awake; perform the last

Labour that thou and I fhall waft,

*

And ende that I have now begunne; And when this fong is song and past, My lute, be ftyll; for I have done.

Born 1503; dyed 1541.- To diftinguish him from another of the name, he is ufually called Sir Thomas Wyats the elder.

As to be heard where eare is none,
As leade to grave in marble stone,

My fong may pearce her hart as foon;
Should we then figh, or fing, or mone?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not fo cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,

As fhe my fuite and affection;

So that I am past remedy,

Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proude of the fpoyle that thou hast gotte
Of fimple hearts, through lovés fhot,

10

15

By whome, unkind, thou haft them wonne; Think not he hath his bow forgott, Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdaine,
That makeft but game on earnest payne;
Think not alone under the funn
Unquit to cause thy lovers playne,

20

Although my lute and I have done. 25

May 'chance' 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 lift, for I have doone.

V. 26. chanced.

30

And then may chaunce thee to repent
The time that thou haft lost and spent,

To cause thy lovers fighe and fwone;
Then fhalt 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 fhall waft,

And ended is that we begonne;
Now is this fong both fong and past:
My lute, be ftill; for I have done.

35

40

PRISONER IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH

HIS PLEASURE THERE PASSED.

BY HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.

So cruell prison howe could betyde, alas !
As proude Windfor; where I, in luft and joy,
Wythe a Kynges fonne, my chyldyfh yeres dyd paffe,
In greater feaft than Priams sonnes of Troye ;
Where eche fwete place returnes a taftfull sower: 5
The large grene court where we were wont to 'hove,'
Wyth eyes caft up into the maydens tower,
And easy fighes, such as folkes draw in love;
The stately feates, the ladies brighte of hewe;
The daunces short, long tales of greate delight, 10
Wyth woordes and lookes, that tygers could but rewe,
Where eche of us dyd please the others ryghte;
The palme play, where defpoyled for the game,
With dared eyes oft we by gleames of love,

Have myft the ball, and gote fighte of our dame, 15
To bayte her eyes, whyche kept the leads above;
The gravel ground, wythe sleves tyde on the helme
On fomyng horfe, with fwordes and friendly hartes;
Wythe chere as though one should another whelme,
Where we have fought, and chased oft with dartes; 20

* Born 15..; beheaded 1546.

V. 6. trove.

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