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And thereto hath a troth as just,
As had Penelope the fair ;
As it by writing sealed were :
I could rehearse, if that I would,
The whole effect of Nature's plaint ; When she had lost the perfite mould,
The like to whom she could not paint: With wringing hands how she did cry! And what she said, I know it, I.
I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart,
That could have gone so near her heart ;
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise
To be the chiefest work she wrought;
On your behalf might well be sought,
Description of Spring, wherein each Thing renews,
save only the Lover.
The soote' season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green
hath clad the hill, and eke the vale; The nightingale, with feathers new, she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come ; for every spray now springs ;
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck, in brake his winter coat he flings;
The fishes fleet with new-repaired scale; The adder, all her slough away she flings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; The busy bee, her honey now she mings ;
Winter is worn, that was the flower's bale. And thus I see, among these pleasant things, Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs !
Praise of certain Psalms of David, translated by
Sir Thomas Wyatt, the elder.
Darius, of whose huge power all Asie rung, In the rich ark dan Homer's rhymes he placed, Who feigned gests of heathen princes sung. Sweet.
What holy grave, what worthy sepulture ?
The stedfast hope, the sweet return to grace Of just David by perfite penitence :
Where rulers may see in a mirror clear The bitter fruit of false concupiscence;
How Jewry bought Uriah's death full dear. In princes' hearts God's scourge imprinted deep Ought them awake out of their sinful sleep.
On the Death of the same Sir Thomas Wyatt. Divers thy death do diversly bemoan:
Some, that in presence of thy livelihed Lurked, whose breasts envy with hate had swoln,
Yield Cæsar's tears upon Pompeius' head!
[And] some, that watched with the murderer's knife
With eager thirst to drink thy guiltless blood, Whose practice brake by happy end of life,
With envious tears to hear thy fame so good!
So ed. 1.--Ed. 1567,“ sepulchre." 2 Mr Warton thinks that “probably the last lines may
contain an oblique allusion to some of the king's of amours.”
But I,--that knew what harbour'd in that head,
What virtues rare were temper'd in that breastHonour the place that such a jewel bred, And kiss the ground whereas thy corse' doth
Of the same. Wyatt resteth here, that quickcould never rest,
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain, And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain As on a stithe, 3 where that some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gam.
A visage stern and mild; where both did
grow Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice: Amid great storms whom
assured so To live upright, and smile at Fortune's choice..
* So ed. I. Ed. 1567,“ the corpse."
" 2 Alive. 3 An anvih,
A hand, that taught what might be said in rhyme,
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit ; A mark the which (unparfited, for time)
Some may approach, but never none shall hit.
A tongue, that serv'd in foreign realms his king,
Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth by travel unto fame.
An eye, whose judgment none affect' could blind,
Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile ; Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.
A heart, where dread was never so imprest,
To hide the thought that might the truth avance; In neither fortune loft, nor yet represt,
Tơ swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.
where force and beauty met; Happy, alas ! too happy, but for foes; Lived and ran the race that Nature set ; Of manhood's shape where she the mold did