THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THAT DEADLY
SICKNESS CANNOT HELP HIS AFFECTION.
THE enemy of life, decayer of all kind,
That with his cold withers away the green,
This other night me in my bed did find,
And offer'd me to rid my fever clean;
And I did grant, so did despair me blind:
He drew his bow with arrow sharp and keen.
And strake the place where Love had hit be
And drave the first dart deeper more and more.
RIGHT true it is, and said full yore ago;
'Take heed of him that by the back thee claweth :' For none is worse than is a friendly foe.
Though thee seem good all thing that thee delight.
Yet know it well, that in thy bosom creepeth:
For many a man such fire ofttimes he kindleth,
That with the blaze his beard himself he singeth.
COMPARISON OF LOVE TO A STREAM
FALLING FROM THE ALPS.
FROM these high hills as when a spring doth fall,
It trilleth down with still and subtle course,
Of this and that it gathers aye and shall,
Till it have just down flowed to stream, and force,
Then at the foot it rageth over all:
So fareth love, when he hath ta'en a source,
Rage is his reign, resistance 'vaileth none,
The first eschew is remedy alone.
OF HIS LOVE THAT PRICKED HER FINGER
WITH A NEEDLE.
SHE sat, and sewed, that hath done me the wrong;
Whereof I plain, and have done many a day:
And, whilst she heard my plaint, in piteous song
She wish'd my heart the sampler, that it lay.
The blind master, whom I have served so long,
Grudging to hear that he did hear her say,
Made her own weapon do her finger bleed,
To feel if pricking were so good indeed.
WHAT man heard such cruelty before?
That, when my plaint remember'd her my woe
That caused it, she cruel more and more,
Wished each stitch, as she did sit and sew,
Had prick'd my heart, for to increase my sore:
And, as I think, she thought it had been so:
For as she thought, this is his heart indeed,
She pricked hard, and made herself to bleed.
THE LOVER THAT FLED LOVE NOW FOLLOWS IT WITH HIS HARM.
SOMETIME I fled the fire, that me so brent,
By sea, by land, by water, and by wind;
And now the coals I follow that be quent,
From Dover to Calais, with willing mind.
Lo, how desire is both forth sprung, and spent;
And he may see, that whilom was so blind,
And all his labour laughs he now to scorn,
Meshed in the briers, that erst was only torn.
THE LOVER COMPARETH HIS HEART TO THE OVERCHARGED GUN.
THE furious gun in his most raging ire,
When that the bowl is rammed in too sore,
And that the flame cannot part from the fire;
Cracks in sunder, and in the air do roar
The shivered pieces. So doth my desire;
Whose flame increaseth aye from more to more;
Which to let out, I dare not look, nor speak;
So inward force my heart doth all to break.
HOW BY A KISS HE FOUND BOTH HIS LIFE
AND DEATH.
NATURE, that gave the bee so feat a grace
To find honey of so wondrous fashion,
Hath taught the spider out of the same place
To fetch poison by strange alteration;
Though this be strange, it is a stranger case
With one kiss by secret operation
Both these at once in those your lips to find;
In change whereof I leave my heart behind.
TO HIS LOVER TO LOOK UPON HIM.
ALL in thy look my life doth whole depend,
Thou hidest thyself, and I must die therefore;
But since thou mayst so easily help thy friend,
Why dost thou stick to salve that thou madest sore?
Why do I die since thou mayst me defend?
And if I die, thy life may last no more;
For each by other doth live and have relief,
I in thy look, and thou most in my grief.
OF DISAPPOINTED PURPOSE BY NEGLIGENCE
Or Carthage he that worthy warrior
Could overcome, but could not use his chance;
And I likewise of all my long endeavour
The sharp conquest though fortune did advance,
Ne could I use. The hold that is given over
1 unpossess, so hangeth now in balance
Of war my peace, reward of all my pain,
At Mountzon thus I restless rest in Spain.
OF HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN.
TAGUS, farewell, that westward with thy streams
Turns up the grains of gold already tried;
For I with spur and sail go seek the Thames,
Gainward the sun that sheweth her wealthy pride;
And to the town that Brutus sought by dreams,
Like bended moon, that leans her lusty side;
My King, my Country I seek, for whom I live:
Of mighty Jove, the winds for this me give.
WYATT BEING IN PRISON, TO BRYAN.
SIGHS are my food, my drink are my tears;
Clinking of fetters would such music crave;
Stink, and close air away my life it wears;
Poor innocence is all the hope I have:
Rain, wind, or weather judge I by my ears:
Malice assaults, that righteousness should have.
Sure am I, Bryan, this wound shall heal again,
But yet, alas, the scar shall still remain.
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