Thus he that wants ane of these three
Ane lover glad may never be,

But aye in some thing discontent :
Be secret, true, and patient!

Nought with thy tongue thyself discure
The thingis thou hast of nature;

For if thou dost, thou should repent:
Be secret, true, and patient!

TO A LADY.

Sweet Rose of virtue and of gentleness!
Delightsome Lily of every lustiness!
Richest in bounty and in beauty clear
And every virtue that to heaven is dear,
Except only that ye are merciless!

Into your garth this day I did pursue :
There saw I flowers that fresh were of hue,
Both white and red most lusty were to seen,
And wholesome herbis upon stalkis green;
Yet leaf nor flower find could I none of Rue.

I doubt that March, with his cold blastis keen,
Has slain this gentle herb that I of mene:
Whose piteous death does to my heart such pain
That I would make to plant his root again,
So comforting his leaves unto me been.

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

1503-1542.

TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS.

And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay, for shame!
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.

And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart,
Never for to depart,

Neither for pain nor smart?

And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
And have no more pity

Of him that loveth thee?

Alas, thy cruelty!

And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay!

DISDAIN ME NOT!

Disdain me not without desert!
Nor leave me not so suddenly!
Since well ye wot that in my hert
I mean ye not but honestly.

Refuse me not without cause why!
Forethink me not, to be unjust!
Since that by lot of fantasy

This careful knot needs knit I must.

Mistrust me not! though some there be

That fain would spot my steadfastness. Believe them not! since that ye see

The proof is not as they express.

Forsake me not till I deserve!

Nor hate me not till I offend! Destroy me not till that I swerve,

But since ye know what I intend!

Disdain me not that am your own!
Refuse me not that am so true!
Mistrust me not till all be known!
Forsake me not, ne for no new!

YEA OR NAY.

Madam! Withouten many words,-
Once I am sure you will, or no :
And if you will, then leave your boordes
And use your wit and show it so !

For with a beck you shall me call;
And if of One that burns alway
Ye have pity or ruth at all,

Answer him fair with Yea or Nay!

If it be Yea, I shall be fain ;

If it be Nay, friends as before,

You shall another man obtain,

And I, mine own, be yours no more.

COMPLAINING OF HER UNKINDNESS.

My Lute! awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,

And end that I have now begun :
And when this song is sung and past,
My Lute! be still: for I have done.

As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,

My song may pierce her heart as soon :

Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan?
No, no, my Lute! for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually

As She my suit and affection,
So that I am past remedy:

Whereby my Lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts through Love his shot,
By whom, Unkind! thou hast them won,
Think not he hath his vow forgot,

Although my Lute and I have done!

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
That makest but game on earnest pain :
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers' plain,
Although my Lute and I have done!

May chance thee lie, wither'd and old,
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the Moon :
Thy wishes then dare not be told.

Care then who list! for I have done.

And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon :
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent;
And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease, my Lute! this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste;
And ended is that we begun.
Now is this song both sung and past :

My Lute! be still, for I have done.

HENRY HOWARD.

(EARL SURREY.) 1517-1547.

HIS LADY'S BEAUTY.

Give place, ye Lovers! here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain : My Lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayn,
Than doth the sun the candle-light
Or brightest day the darkest night.

And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fair :
For what she saith ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were.
And virtues hath she many moe
Than I with pen have skill to show.

I could rehearse, if that I would,

The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould,

The like to whom she could not paint:
With wringing hands how she did cry;
And what she said: I know it, ay!

I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart,

There was no loss by law of kind

That could have gone so near her heart : And this was chiefly all her pain,

"She could not make the like again."

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
To be the chiefest work she wrought,
In faith, methink, some better ways

On your behalf might well be sought