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On his return from Spain.

Tagus farewell! that westward with thy streams,
Turnest up the grains of gold already tried;
With spur and sail, for I go seek the Thames
Gainward the sun that sheweth her wealthy pride;
And to the town which Brutus sought by dreams,
Like bended moon doth lend her lusty tide.
My king, my country, alone for whom I live,
Of mighty love the wings for this me give.

That pleasure is mixed with every pain. Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen Sometimes bear flowers fair and fresh of hue; Poison oftime is put in medicine,

And causeth health in man for to renew.

Fire that purgeth all things that are unclean,

May health and hurt: and if these things be true, I trust sometime my harm may be my health; Since

every woe is joined with some wealth.

This little poem is a translation from the Italian of Serafino.

The Lover complaineth that his Love doth not pity him.
Resound my voice ye woods, that hear me plain,
Both hills and dales causing reflection;

And rivers eke, record ye of my pain,
Which have ye oft forced by compassion
As judges, to hear my exclamation,
Among whom pity I find doth remain ;
Where I it seek, alas! there is disdain.

Oft, ye rivers, to hear my woeful sound

Have stopped your course: and plainly to express, Many a tear by moisture of the ground,

The earth hath wept to hear my heaviness,
Which causeless I suffer without redress :
The hugy oaks have roared in the wind.
Each thing methought complaining in their kind.

Why then, alas! doth not she on me rue?
Or is her heart so hard that no pity

May in it sink, my joy for to renew?

O stony heart! who hath thus framed thee
So cruel that art clothed with beauty.

No grace to me from thee there may proceed,
But as rewarded, death for to be my meed.

The Lover compareth his state to a Ship in a perilous storm tossed on the sea.

My galley charged with forgetfulness,

Thorough sharp seas in winter's nights doth pass "Tween rock and rock; mine enemy, alas! That is my lord, steereth with cruelness,

And every oar, 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,
Have done the wearied cords great hinderance,
Wreathed with error and with ignorance.
The stars be hid that led me to this pain;
Drowned is reason that should me consort,

And I remain despairing of the port.

This sonnet is a translation from one of Petrarch's beginning

Passa la nave mia colma d'obblio.

It is perhaps the most correctly finished of all Wyatt's sonnets, and will not suffer by comparison with any similar composition of that age.

The Courtier's Life.

In courts to serve decked with fresh

array,

Of sugar'd meats feeling the sweet repast;
The life in banquets, and sundry kind of play,
Amid the press of lordly looks to waste;

Hath with it joined oft times such bitter taste,
That whoso joys such kind of life to hold
In prison joys, fettered with chains of gold.

Of the mean and sure estate.

Stand whoso list, upon the slippery top
Of high estate; and let me here rejoice,
And use my quiet without let or stop,

Unknown in court that hath such brackish joys.
In hidden place so let my days forth pass,

I

That when my years be done withouten noise,

may

die aged after the common trace.

For him death gripeth right hard by the crop,
That is much known of others, and of himself, alas!
Doth die unknown dased with dreadful face,

"This is a translation of the following lines of Seneca's Thyestes.

Stet quicunque volet potens

Aula culmine lubrico;

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The reader perhaps need not be reminded, that the above passage from Seneca has been frequently imitated in our language. If Wyatt's were compared with any of the more modern translations, it would not be found inferior to the best."

Of dissembling words.

Throughout the world, if it were sought,
Fair words enough a man shall find;
They be good cheap; they cost right nought;
Their substance is but only wind :—
But well to say, and so to mean,

That sweet accord is seldom seen.

That the eye betrayeth always the secret affections of the heart.

And if an eye may save or slay,

And strike more deep than weapon long;

And if an eye by subtle play,

May move one more than any tongue

How can ye say that I do wrong

Thus to suspect without desert?
For the eye is traitor to the heart.

To frame all well, I am content
That it were done unweetingły ;
But yet I say, who will assent,
To do but well, do nothing why
That men should deem the contrary;
For it is said by men expert,

That the eye is traitor to the heart.

But yet alas! that look, all soul,

That I do claim of right to have, Should not, methinks, go seek the school, To please all folk, for who can crave Friendlier thing than heart witsave By look to give in friendly part;

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And my suspect is without blame;

For as ye say, not only I

But others more have deemed the same;

Then sure it is not jealousy,

If subtle look of reckless eye

Did range too far, to make me smart;

For the eye is traitor to the heart.

But I your friend shall take it thus,

Since you will so, as stroke of chance; And further leave for to discuss,

Whether the stroke did stick or glance; Excuse who can let him advance Dissembled looks, but for my part, My eye must still betray my heart.

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