The poetical works of Sir Thomas Wyatt

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Bell and Daldy, 1866 - 251 pages

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Page 121 - Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant ; My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet ! Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since whan The suit, the service none tell can ; Forget not yet ! Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong...
Page 27 - And when this song is sung and past, My lute ! be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none ; As lead to grave in marble stone ; My song may pierce her heart as soon. Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan ? No, no, my lute ! for I have done.
Page 30 - They flee from me, that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek That now are wild, and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change.
Page 136 - Was never bird tangled in lime That brake away in better time, Than I, that rotten boughs did climb, And had no hurt but scaped free. Now ha ! ha I ha ! full well is me, For I am now at liberty.
Page 17 - I am of them that furthest come behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer ; but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow ; I leave off therefore, Since in a net I seek to hold the wind. 'Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt As well as I, may spend his time in vain ! And graven with diamonds, in letters plain, There is written her fair neck round about; ' Noli me tangere ; for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
Page 16 - Love, and all thy laws for ever; Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more : Senec, and Plato, call me from thy lore, To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour...
Page xlvi - This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk. And in foul weather at my book to sit, In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk: No man doth mark whereso I ride or go, In lusty leas at liberty I walk, And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe, Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel.
Page 18 - Hoping thereby to pease their painful woe. And some there be, that when it chanceth so That women change, and hate where love hath been, They call them false, and think with words to win The hearts of them which otherwhere doth grow.
Page 7 - I hate myself; I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain. Lo, thus displeaseth me both death and life, And my delight is causer of this strife.
Page 7 - I FIND no peace, and all my war is done; I fear and hope, I burn, and freeze like ice...

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