And of this grief ye shall be quit,
In helping truth stedfast to go.

The time is long that truth did sit

Feeble and weak, and suffering woe;
Cherish him well, continue so;

Let him not from your heart depart;
Then fears not the eye to shew the heart.

The Lover despairing relinquisheth the pursuit.

Whoso list to hunt! I know where is a hind!
But as for me, alas! I may no more,
The vain pursuit 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 to hunt, I put him out of doubt

As well as I, may spend his time in vain!
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."

The probable connection of this sonnet with Wyatt's passion for Anne Boleyn, has been before observed. It is a translation from the Italian of Romanello, who himself imitated his countryman Petrarch. The translation with the exception of the last line, is so close, as to admit of a doubt if any particular object was present in the author's mind when he wrote it.

He hopeth hereafter for better chance.

He is not dead that sometime had a fall;

The Sun returns that was beneath a cloud; And when fortune hath spit out all her gall,

I trust good luck to me shall be allowed. For I have seen a ship into haven fall—

After the storm hath broke both mast and shroud. And eke the willow that stoopeth with the wind, Doth rise again, and greater wood doth bind.

The mournful Lover to his heart, with complaint that it will not break.

Comfort thyself, my woeful heart,
Or shortly on thyself thee wreak;

For length redoubleth deadly smart;

Why sighest thou, heart! and wilt not break?

To waste in sighs were piteous death;

Alas! I find thee faint and weak.

Enforce thyself to lose thy breath,

Why sighest thou, heart! and wilt not break?

Thou knowest right well that no redress

Is thus to pine; and for to speak,
Perdie! it is remediless;

Why sighest thou then, and wilt not break?

It is too late for to refuse

The yoke, when it is on thy neck!
To shake it off, vaileth not to muse,

Why sighest thou then, and wilt not break?

To sob and sigh it were but vain,

Since there is none that doth it reek; Alas! thou dost prolong thy pain;

Why sighest thou then, and wilt not break?

Then in her sight to move her heart

Seek on thyself, thyself to wreak,

That she may know thou sufferest smart ;
Sigh there thy last, and therewith break!

A description of such a one as he would love. A face that should content me wondrous well, Should not be fair, but lovely to behold; With gladsome cheer all grief for to expel: With sober looks, so would I that it should Speak without words, such words as none can tell ; The tress also should be of crisped gold.

With wit, and these might chance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide.

The Lover's Lute cannot be blamed though it sing of his Lady's unkindness.

Blame not my Lute! for he must sound

Of this or that as liketh me;

For lack of wit the Lute is bound

To give such tunes as pleaseth me;
And though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such words as touch thy change,

My lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey;
Break not them then so wrongfully,

But wreak thyself some other way;
And though the songs which I indite,
Do quit thy change with rightful spite,
Blame not

my

Spite asketh spite, and changing change,
And falsed faith must needs be known,
The fault so great the case so strange,
Of right it must abroad be blown :
Then since that by thine own desert,
My songs do tell how true thou art,

lute !

Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,

And well deserved to have blame;

Change thou thy way, so ill begone,
And then my Lute shall sound that same :

But if till then my fingers play,

By thy desert their wonted way;

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break
My strings in spite with great disdain,
Yet have I found out for thy sake,
Strings for to string my lute again:
And if perchance this silly rhyme,
Do make thee blush at any time,

Blame not my Lute!

Wyatt appears to have written this piece as a counterpart to his beautiful little ode My Lute awake!'

[page 20.] It is probable that the ode had been felt as a satire by the Lady to whom it was directed, and that she had found fault with Wyatt in consequence. This produced the ode now before us. It is extremely ingenious, and possesses considerable merit. The versification is harmonious and elegant throughout. It bears evident marks of being one of Wyatt's late compositions."

TO JOHN POYNZ.*

Of the Courtier's Life.

Mine own John Poynz, since you delight to know
The causes why that homeward I me draw,
And flee the press of courts, whereso they go,t
Rather than live in thrall, under the awe
Of lordly looks, wrapped within my cloak,
To wit and lust, learning to set a law;
It is not, that because I scorn or mock

The power of them whom fortune here hath lent
Charge over us, of right to strike the stroke.
But true it is that I have ever meant

Less to esteem them than the common sort,

Of outer things that judge in their intent, Without regard that doth inward resort,‡

* John Poynz was descended from the younger branch of an houourable family long settled in Gloucestershire, He appears to have been an attendant upon the court, but what particular office he bore is not known. His portrait occurs among the Holbein Heads, from which he appears to have had a remarkably expressive and intelligent countenance. He died in 1558, without issue.

+ The court, in Wyatt's time, was seldom stationary, but made regular progresses, in the summer time particularly.

The meaning here is obscure, it seems to be-I do not scorn or deride the powerful, but yet, I esteem them less than the common sort of men do, who judge more by outward appearances than by real intrinsic merit,