Sir Thomas Wyatt
1503-1542
Born at Allington Castle in Kent and educated at Cambridge, Wyatt spent most of his life in the service of Henry Eighth although he fell out of favour from time to time. Most notably, perhaps, he was imprisoned in the Tower of London under suspicion of being one of Anne Bolyen's lovers. He was soon released and, back in favor, was appointed as ambassador to the court of Charles V in 1537. In 1541 he was back in the Tower following accusations of misconduct as ambassador, he was pardoned, possibly at the request of Catherine Howard and died in Sherborne, Dorset in 1542. He was not published until after his death.
The first poem here has often been seen as containing covert hints of involvement with Anne Boleyn with the reference to Noli me tangere (Do not touch), for Caesar's I am.
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
Whoso list
to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh 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,
Sithens 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 Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
Forget not
yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!
Forget not
yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!
Forget not
yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!
Forget not!
O, forget not this!--
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss--
Forget not yet!
Forget not
then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:
Forget not this!
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 pitye
Of him that loveth thee?
Alas, thy cruelty!
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
What should
I say?
— Since Faith is dead,
And Truth away
From you is fled?
Should I be led
With doubleness?
Nay! nay! mistress.
I promised
you,
And you promised me,
To be as true
As I would be.
But since I see
Your double heart,
Farewell my part!
Thought
for to take
'Tis not my mind;
But to forsake
One so unkind;
And as I find
So will I trust.
Farewell, unjust!
Can ye say
nay
But that you said
That I alway
Should be obeyed?
And — thus betrayed
Or that I wist!
Farewell, unkist!
They flee
from me that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot stalking within my chamber:
Once have I seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild, and do not once remember
That sometime they have put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking in continual change.
Thanked
be fortune, it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once especial--
In thin array: after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewithal so sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, 'Dear heart, how like you this?'
It was no
dream; for I lay broad awaking:
But all is turn'd now, through my gentleness,
Into a bitter fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness;
And she also to use new-fangleness.
But since that I unkindly so am served,
'How like you this?' — what hath she now deserved?
Translation of Petrarch's Rima, Sonnet 134
I find
no peace, and all my war is done;
I fear and hope; I burn and freeze like
ice;
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I seize on;
That looseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise;
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth none occasion.
Withouten eyen, I see; and without tongue I plain;
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;
I love another, and thus I hate myself;
I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both death and life;
And my delight is causer of this strife.
My lute,
awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is said 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 sing, or sigh, 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 affectiòn;
So that I am past remedy:
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of
the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
Vengeance
shall fall on thy disdain,
That makest but game of earnest pain:
Trow not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lover's plain,
Although my lute and I have done.
May chance
thee lie wither'd and old
The 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 has lost and spent
To cause thy lover's 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.
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.