Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Sir Thomas Wyatt, The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Wyatt

Sir Thomas Wyatt, The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Wyatt, Ed. Rev. George Gilfillan. James Nichol, 104 High Street, Edinburgh, 1858.

Such vain thought as wonted to mislead me
In desert hope, by well assured moan,
Makes me from company to live alone,
In following her whom reason bids me flee.
She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty;
And after her my heart would fain be gone;
But armed sighs my way do stop anon,
‘Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty;
Yet as I guess, under disdainful brow
One beam of ruth is in her cloudy look:
Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook:
That bolded straight the way then seek I how
To utter forth the smart I bide within;
But such it is, I not how to begin.
(The Wavering Lover Willeth, And Dreadeth to Moveth His Desire, page 3-4)

If waker care; if sudden pale colour;
If many sighs with little speech to plain:
Now joy, now woe, if they my chere distain;
For hope of small, if much to fear therefore;
To haste or slack, my pace to less, or more,
Be sign of love, then do I love again.
[chere: the expression of the countenance.]
(The Lover Confesseth Him in Love with Phyllis, 5)

Each man me tell’th I change of my devise;
And on my faith, methink it good reason
To change purpose, like after the season.
For in each case to keep still one guise,
Is meet for them that would be taken wise;
And I am not of such manner condition;
But treated after a diverse fashion;
And thereupon my diverseness doth rise.
But you, this diverseness that blamen most,
Change you no more, but still after one rate
Treat you me well, and keep you in that state;
And while with me doth dwell this wearied ghost,
My word, nor I, shall not be variable,
But always one; your own both firm and stable.
(Of Change in Mind, 6)

Like unto these unmeasurable mountains
So is my painful life, the burden of ire;
For high be they, and high is my desire;
And I of tears, and they be full of fountains:
Under craggy rocks they have barren plains;
Hard thoughts in me my woful mind doth tire:
Small fruit and many leaves their tops do attire,
With small effect great trust in me remains:
The boisterous winds oft their high boughs do blast;
Hot sighs in me continually be shed:
Wild beasts in them, fierce love in me is fed;
Unmovable am I, and they steadfast.
Of singing birds they have the tune and note;
And I always plaints passing through my throat.
(The Lover’s Life Compared to the Alps, 12)

For, hitherto though I have lost my time,
Me list no longer rotten boughs to clime.
(A Renouncing of Love, 16)

Whoso list to hunt? I know where is an hind!
But as for me, alas! I may no more,
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore;
I am of them that furthest come behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind,
Draw form 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.’
(The Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace, Relinquisheth the Pursuit, 16)

Go, burning sighs! unto the frozen heart,
To break the ice, which pity’s painful dart
Might never pierce: and if that mortal prayer
In heaven be heard, at least yet I desire
That death, or mercy, end my woful smart.
Take with thee pain, whereof I have my part,
And eke the flame form which I cannot start,
And leave me then in rest, I you require.
Go, burning sighs! fulfil that I desire,
I must go work, I see, by craft and art,
For truth and faith in her is laid apart:
Alas, I cannot therefore now assail her,
With pitiful complaint and scalding fire,
That form my breast deceivably doth start.
Go, burning sighs!
(The Lover Sendeth Sighs to Move His Suit, 20)

Once, as methought, Fortune me kiss’d,
And bad me ask what I thought best,
And I should have it as me list,
Therewith to set my heart in rest.

I asked but my lady’s heart,
To have for evermore mine own;
Then at an end were all my smart;
Then should I need no more to maon.

Yet for all that a stormy blast
Had overturn’d this goodly day;
And Fortune seemed at the last
That to her promise she said nay.

But like as one out of despair,
To sudden hope revived I,
Now Fortune sheweth herself so fair,
That I content me wondrously.

My most desire my hand may reach,
My will is always at my hand;
Me need not logn for to beseech
Her, that hath power me to command.

What earthly thing more can I crave?
What would I wish more at my will?
Nothing on eath more would I have,
Save that I have, to have it still.

For Fortune now hath kept her promess,
In granting me my most desire:
Of my sovereign I have redress,
And I content me with my hire.
(The Lover Rejoiceth the Enjoying of His Love, Complete, 26)


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