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From The International Library of Masterpieces, Literature, Art, & Rare Manuscripts, Volume XXX, Editor-in-Chief: Harry Thurston Peck; The International Bibliophile Society, New York; 1901; pp. 11217-11219.

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11217

SIR THOMAS WYATT.
(1503-1542)

WYATT, SIR THOMAS, an English poet and diplomatist; born in Kent in 1503; died at Sherborne, Dorsetshire, October 11, 1542. He was knighted in 1536, was High Sheriff of Kent in 1537, and Ambassador to the Court of Charles V. in 1537 and 1539-40. His poems, stilted to modern ears and not abounding in the poetical element, have some very happy refrains, and here and there some remarkable lines.

SONG: 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;
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such word as touch thy change
                  Blame not my Lute!


My Lute, alas! doth not offend,
     Though that perforce he must agree
To sound such tunes as I intend
     To sing to them that heareth me;
Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
And toucheth some that use to feign,
                  Blame not my Lute!


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 Lute!
11218
Spite asketh spite, and changing change,
     And falsèd faith must needs be known;
The faults 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,
                  Blame not my Lute!


Blame but thyself that hast misdone,
     And well deservèd to have blame,
Change thou thy way, so evil begone,
     And then my Lute shall sound that same;
But if till then my fingers play,
By thy desert, their wonted way,
                  Blame not my Lute!


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 sely rhyme
Do make thee blush at any time,
                  Blame not my Lute!

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HOW THE LOVER PERISHETH IN HIS DELIGHT AS THE FLY IN THE FIRE.





SOME fowels there be who have so perfect sight,
     Against the sun because their eyes for to defend;
     And some, because the light doth them offend,
Never appear but in the dark or night;
Others rejoice to see the fire so bright,
     And ween to play in it, as they pretend,
     But find contrary of it, that they intend.
Alas! of that sort may I be by right;
     For to withstand her look I am not able:
Yet can I not hide me in no dark place;
So followeth me remembrance of that face,
     That with my teary eyen, swoln and unstable.
My destiny to behold her doth me lead;
And yet I know I run into the glead.

11219

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A RENOUNCING OF LOVE.





FAREWELL, Love, and all thy laws for ever;
     Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more:
     Senec, and Plato, call me from thy lore,
To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavor.
In blind error when I did persèver,
     Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,
     Taught me in trifles that I set no store;
But ’scape forth thence, since liberty is lever.
Therefore, farewell: go trouble younger hearts,
     And in me claim no more authority;
     With idle youth go use thy property,
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts:
     For, hitherto though I have lost my time,
     Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb.

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THE LOVER PRAYETH NOT TO BE DISDAINED, REFUSED, MISTRUSTED, NOR FORSAKEN.





DISDAIN me not without desert,
     Nor leave me not so suddenly;
Since well ye wot that in my heart
     I mean ye not but honesty.


Refuse me not without cause why,
     For think we 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 now for no new.









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