THE

SURREY AND WYATT

ANTHOLOGY.

1509-1547 A.D.

Strictly speaking, this Collection of our Poetry during the reign of HENRY VIII should be called The WYATT and SURREY Anthology; for Sir THOMAS WYATT the Elder was not only the nobler man and the nobler Poet of the two: but it was he that brought the Sonnet Stanza, together with Terza Rima and Blank Verse, into England from Italy. It is however customary to say SURREY and WYATT, simply because the former was a Peer.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

ALAS! Madam! for stealing of a kiss,

Have I so much your mind therein offended? Have I then done so grievously amiss,

That, by no means, the matter may be amended? Then, revenge you! and the next way is this. Another kiss shall have my life through ended! For to my mouth the first my heart did suck; The next shall clean out of my breast it pluck!

THEY flee from me, that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
[Once] 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.

Thanked be Fortune! it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better! But once, in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,

When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And She me caught in her arms long and small,
Therewithal sweetly [She] did me kiss;

And softly said, ' Dear Heart! how like

you this?'

It was no dream! [for] I lay broad waking!
But all is turnèd, through my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go, of her goodness!
And She also, to use new fangleness!

But since that I so [un]kindly am served,

I would fain know, What She hath deserved?

WHOSO list to hunt, I know where is a Hind!
But as for me, helas! 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 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 CÆSAR'S I am;

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

My Galley, charged with forgetfulness,

Through sharp seas, in winter nights, doth pass 'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine enemy, alas! That is my Lord, steereth with cruelness. And, every hour, a thought in readiness,

As though that death were light in such a case. An endless Wind doth tear the Sail apace,

Of forced sighs, and trusty fearfulness.

A Rain of tears, a Cloud of dark disdain,
Hath done the wearied cords great hinderance,
Wreathed with error, and eke with ignorance.
The Stars be hid, that led me to this pain.
Drownèd is Reason, that should me comfort;
And I remain, despairing of my port.

OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE.

WRITTEN TO JOHN POYNTZ.

My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin, They sang sometime a Song of the Field Mouse, That, for because her livel'hood was but thin, Would needs go seek her townish Sister's house. She thought herself endurèd too much pain. The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse That, when the furrows swimmèd with the rain, She must lie cold and wet, in sorry plight:

And, worse than that, bare meat there did remain To comfort her, when she her house had dight; Sometime a barleycorn, sometime a bean,

For which she laboured hard, both day and night, In harvest time, whilst she might go and glean. And when [her] store was 'stroyèd with the flood, Then, wellaway! for she undone was clean; Then was she fain to take, instead of food, Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile. 'My Sister,' quod she, 'hath a living good; And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile. In cold and storm, she lieth warm and dry In bed of down; the dirt doth not defile Her tender foot; she laboureth not as I!

Richly she feedeth, and at the rich man's cost; And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry.

By sea, by land, of the delicates the most
Her Cater seeks, and spareth for no peril.
She feedeth on boiled bacon, [baked] meat, and roast;
And hath thereof neither charge nor travail :
And, when she list, the liquor of the grape
Doth glad her heart, till that her belly swell!'
And at this journey, she maketh but a jape.

So forth she goeth; trusting of all this wealth,
With her Sister her part so for to shape,
That, if she might keep herself in health,
To live a Lady, while her life doth last.
And to the door now is she come by stealth;
And, with her foot, anon she scrapeth full fast.
Th' other, for fear, durst not well scarce appear;
Of every noise so was the wretch aghast!
At last, she askèd softly, 'Who was there?'
And in her language, as well as she could,
'Peep!' quod the other, 'Sister! I am here!' [loud?'
'Peace!' quod the Town Mouse, 'Why speak'st thou so
And by the hand she took her fair and well.

'Welcome!' quod she, 'my Sister! by the rood!' She feasted her, that joy it was to tell

The fare they had! They drank the wine so clear!
And, as to purpose now and then it fell,

She cheered her with, 'How, Sister! what cheer
Amidst this joy befell a sorry chance

That, wellaway! the stranger bought full dear
The fare she had: for, as she looked askance,
Under a stool, she spied two steaming eyes
In a round head, with sharp ears. In France