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And thereto hath a truth as just,
For what she saith, ye may it trust,
I could rehearse, if that I would,
I know she swore, with raging mind,
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
FROM Tuscane came my Lady's worthy race;
Fair Florence was sometime their ancient seat; The Western Isle, whose pleasant shore doth face Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat; Fostered she was, with milk of Irish breast: Her Sire an earl, her Dame of princes' blood; From tender years in Britain she doth rest With King's child, where she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to my eyne; Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight: Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine; Windsor, alas! doth chase me from her sight. Her beauty' of kind, her virtue from above; Happy is he that can obtain her love!
me e'en where the Sun doth parch the green, Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice; In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen; In presence press'd of people, mad or wise; Set me in high, or yet in low degree; In longest night, or in the shortest day; In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be; In lusty youth, or when the hairs are grey; Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell," On bill or dale, or on the foaming flood: Thrall'd, or at large; wherever so I dwell, Sick, or in health; in evil fame, or good; Her's will I be, and only with this thought, Content myself, although my chance be nought.
LAS! so all things now do hold their peace,
For my sweet thoughts, some time do pleasure bring
To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
MY Jute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Now cease, my lute: this is the last
SIR THOMAS WYAT.
SINCE love will needs that I must love,
And since no chance may it remove,
I shall always myself apply,
To serve and suffer patiently.
Though for good-will I find but hate,
There is no grief, no smart, no woe,
I do profess it willingly,
YOUR looks so often cast,
Your eyes so friendly roll'd,
Fain would ye find a cloak
A Man may live thrice Nestor's life,
Thrice wander out Ulysses' race, Yet never find Ulysses' wife;
Such change hath chanced in this case! Less age will serve than Paris had,
Small pain (if none be small enow) To find good store of Helen's trade;
Such sap the root doth yield the bough! For one good wife, Ulysses slew
A worthy knot of gentle blood: For one ill wife, Greece overthrew
The town of Troy. Sith bad and good Bring mischief, Lord let be thy will To keep me free from either ill!
See there is no sort
Of things that live in grief, Which at some time may not resort, Whereas they find relief.
The chaced deer hath soil,
To cool him in his heat; The ass, after his weary toil, In stable is up set.
The coney hath its cave,
The little bird its nest,
The owl, with feeble sight,
Lies lurking in the leaves; The sparrow, in the frosty night, May shroud her in the eaves. But, woe to me, alas!
In sun, nor yet in shade, I cannot find a resting-place My burthen to unlade.