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1 larks

2 staff

1 ferny hill

every lock

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9. For forty days and forty nights

He wade thro red blude to the knee, And he saw neither sun nor moon,

But heard the roaring of the sea.

2. Stevyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris' hed

on honde; He saw a sterre was fayr and brygt over Bed

lem stonde.

3. He kyst ? adoun the boris hed and went in to

the halle: “I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes


10. O they rade on and further on,

Until they came to a garden green:
“Light down, light down, ye ladie free,

Some of that fruit let me pull to thee.” 40 11. "O no, O no, True Thomas,” she says,

"That fruit maun not be touched by thee, For a' the plagues that are in hell

Light on the fruit of this countrie. 12. “But I have a loaf here in my lap,

Likewise a bottle of claret wine,
And here ere we go farther on,

We'll rest a while, and ye may dine.” 13. When he had eaten and drunk his fill,

"Lay down your head upon my knee,” 50 The lady sayd, “ere we climb yon hill,

And I will show you fairlies' three.

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6. “Lakit me neyther mete nor drynk in Kyng

Herowdes halle;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than

we alle.

14. "O see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset wi thorns and briers ? That is the path of righteousness,

Tho after it but few enquires.

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15. "And see not ye that braid braid road,

That lies across yon lillie leven? ?
That is the path of wickedness,

Tho some call it the road to heaven.


8. “Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, ne non ryche

wede; Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born xal helpyn us

at our nede."

9. “That is al so soth, Stevyn, al so soth, iwys,o As this capoun crowe xal that lyth here in

myn dysh.”

16. “And see ye not that bonny road,

Which winds about the fernie brae ? 3
That is the road to fair Elfand,

Where you and I this night maun gae. 17. “But Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,

Whatever ye may hear or see,
For gin ae word you should chance to speak,

You will neer get back to your ain countrie.” 18. He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair of shoes of velvet green, 70 And till seven years were past and gone

True Thomas on earth was never seen.

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1. Seynt Stevene was a clerk in Kyng Herowdes

halle, And servyd him of bred and cloth, as every

kyng befalle.

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a lovely lawn hillside

1 marvels


12 they


SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503-1542)


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Farewell, Love, and all thy laws forever!
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more:
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour.
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,
Taught me in trifles that I set no store;
But ’scaped 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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Divers doth use, as I have heard and know,
When that to change their ladies do begin,
To mourn,

and wail, and never for to lynn;?
Hoping thereby to 'pease their painful woe.
And some there be that when it chanceth so
That women change, and hate where love hath

been, They call them false, and think with words to win The hearts of them which otherwhere doth grow. But as for me, though that by chance indeed Change hath outworn the favour that I had, I will not wail, lament, nor yet be sad, Nor call her false that falsely did me feed; But let it pass, and think it is of kind 3 That often change doth please a woman's mind.

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 Lovës 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 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 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.





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.


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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.





WOULD LOVE A face that should content me wondrous well, Should not be fair, but lovely to behold, Of lively look, all grief for to repell, With right good grace, so would I that it should Speak without word, such words as none can tell; The tress also should be of crisped gold. With wit and these perchance I might be tried, And knit again with knot that should not slide.


She feedeth on boiled bacon, meat and roast,
And hath thereof neither charge nor travail;
And when she list, the liquor of the grape
Doth glad her heart till that her belly swell.” 35

And at this journey she maketh but a jape; '
So forth she goeth, trusting of all this wealth
With her sister her part so for to shape,
That if she might keep herself in health,
To live a lady while her life doth last.

And to the door now is shc come by stealth,
And with her foot anon she scrapeth full fast.
Th’ other for fear durst not well scarce appear,
Of every noise so was the wretch aghast.
At last she asked softly who was there,
And in her language as well as she could.
“Peep!” quoth the other sister, “I am here.”
“Peace," quoth the town mouse, “why speakest

thou so loud?” And by the hand she took her fair and well. “Welcome,” quoth she, “my sister, by the

Rood !" She feasted her, that joy it was to tell The fare they had; they drank the wine so clear, And as to purpose now and then it fell, She cheered her with “Ho, sister, what cheer!" Amid this joy befell a sorry chance,

50 That, welaway! the stranger bought full dear The fare she had, for, as she looks askance, Under a stool she spied two steaming ? eyes In a round head with sharp ears. In France Was never mouse so fear'd, for, though unwise Had not i-seen such a beast before, Yet had nature taught her after her guise To know her foe and dread him evermore. The towney mouse fled, she knew whither to go; Th' other had no shift, but wanders sore 60 Feard of her life. At home she wished her tho, And to the door, alas! as she did skip, The Heaven it would, lo! and eke her chance

was so, At the threshold her silly foot did trip; And ere she might recover it again, The traitor cat had caught her by the hip, And made her there against her will remain, That had forgotten her poor surety and rest For seeming wealth wherein she thought to reign. Alas, my Poines, how men do seek the best 70 And find the worst by error as they stray! And no marvel; when sight is so oppressed, And blind the guide, anon out of the way Goeth guide and all in seeking quiet life. O wretched minds, there is no gold that may Grant that ye seek; no war; no peace; no strife. No, no, although thy head were hooped with gold,


WRITTEN TO JOHN POINS My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin, They sang sometime a song of the field mouse That, for because her livelihood was but thin, Would needs go seek her townish sister's house. She thought herself endured too much pain; The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse That when the furrows swimmed with the rain, She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight; And worse than that, bare meat there did remain To comfort her when she her house had dight; 10 Sometime a barly corn; sometime a bean, For which she laboured hard both day and night In harvest time whilst she might go and glean; And where store' was stroyed ? with the flood, Then welaway! for she undone was clean. Then was she fain to take instead of food Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile.

“My sister," quoth she, “hath a living good, And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile. In cold and storm she lieth warm and dry In bed of down, the dirt doth not defile Her tender foot, she laboureth not as I. Richly she feedeth and at the richman's cost, And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry. By sea, by land, of the delicates, the most Her cater seeks and spareth for no peril,




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Sergeant with mace, halberd, sword nor knife,
Cannot repulse the care that follow should.
Each kind of life hath with him his disease. 80
Live in delight even as thy lust would,
And thou shalt find, when lust doth most thee

It irketh straight and by itself doth fade.
A small thing it is that may thy mind appease.
None of ye all there is that is so mad
To seek grapes upon brambles or briars;
Nor none, I trow, that hath his wit so bad
To set his hay' for conies ? over rivers,
Nor ye set not a drag-net for an hare;
And yet the thing that most is your desire

Ye do mistake with more travail and care.
Make plain thine heart, that it be not knotted
With hope or dread, and see thy will be bare
From all effects whom vice hath ever spotted.
Thyself content with that is thee assigned,
And use it well that is to thee allotted.
Then seek no more out of thyself to find
The thing that thou hast sought so long before,
For thou shalt feel it sitting in thy mind.
Mad, if ye list to continue your sore,
Let present pass and gape on time to come,
And dip yourself in travail more and more.
Henceforth, my Poines, this shall be all and

some, These wretched fools shall have nought else of me; But to the great God and to his high dome, None other pain pray I for them to be, But when the rage doth lead them from the right, That, looking backward, virtue they may see, Even as she is so goodly fair and bright, And whilst they clasp their lusts in arms across, Grant them, good Lord, as Thou mayst of Thy

might, To fret inward for losing such a loss.

What cold again is able to restore
My fresh green years, that wither thus and

Alas, I see, nothing hath hurt so sore,
But time in time reduceth a return;
In time my harm increaseth more and more,
And seems to have my cure always in scorn.
Strange kinds of death, in life that I do try,
At hand to melt, far off in flame to burn;
And like as time list to my cure apply,
So doth each place my comfort clean refuse.
All thing alive that seeth the heavens with eye
With cloak of night may cover and excuse
Itself from travail of the day's unrest,
Save I, alas! against all others' use,
That then stir up the torments of my breast,
And curse each star as causer of my fate.
And when the sun hath eke the dark oppresst,
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The travails of mine endless smart and pain;
For then, as one that hath the light in hate, 30
I wish for night, more covertly to plain,"
And me withdraw from every haunted place,
Lest by my cheer my chance appear too plain.
And in my mind I measure pace by pace,
To seek the place where I myself had lost,
That day that I was tangled in the lace,
In seeming slack, that knitteth ever most.
But never yet the travail of my thought
Of better state could catch a cause to boast;
For if I found, sometime that I have sought,
Those stars by whom I trusted of the port,
My sails do fall, and I advance right nought,
As anchored fast, my spirits do all resort
To stand agazed, and sink in more and more
The deadly harm which she doth take in sport.
Lo, if I seek, how I do find my sore !
And if I flee I carry with me still
The venomed shaft, which doth his force restore
By haste of flight, and I may plain my fill
Unto myself, unless this careful song
Print in your heart some parcel of my teen; ?
For I, alas! in silence all too long
Of mine old hurt yet feel the wound but green.
Rue on my life; or else your cruel wrong
Shall well appear, and by my death be seen!








OF A LOVER The sun hath twice brought forth his tender green And clad the earth in lively lustiness, Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean, And new again begins their cruelness, Since I have hid under my breast the harm That never shall recover healthfulness. The winter's hurt recovers with the warm, The parched green restored is with the shade. What warmth, alas! may serve for to disarm 9 The frozen heart that mine in flame hath made?



LOVER The soote : scason that bud and bloom forth brings With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale; The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her make hath told her tale:


2 rabbits

I complain


a grief


3 sweet

A mate

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