Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne

Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–1542)

Extracts from Songs and Sonnets

UNSTABLE dream, according to the place,

Be steadfast once, or else at least be true:

By tasted sweetness make me not to rue

The sudden loss of thy false feigned grace.

By good respect, in such a dangerous case,

Thou broughtest not her into these tossing seas;

But madest my sprite to live, my care to encrease,

My body in tempest her delight to embrace.

The body dead, the spirit had his desire;

Painless was the one, the other in delight.

Why then, alas, did it not keep it right,

But thus return to leap into the fire;

And when it was at wish, could not remain?

Such mocks of dreams do turn to deadly pain.

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! oh! 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 yet!

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 sing, or sigh, or moan?

No, no, my lute! for I have done.

The rock doth 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 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 lovers plain,

Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie withered 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 thy song both sung and past;

My lute, be still, for I have done.

TAGUS farewell! that westward with thy streams

Turns up the grains of gold already tried;

For I with spur and sail go seek the Thames

Gainward the sun that showeth her wealthy pride

And to the town that Brutus sought by dreams,

Like bended moon that leans her lusty side;

My king, my country alone for whom I live,

Of mighty Love the winds for this me give!