Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest; Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain, And virtue sank the deeper in his breast; Such profit he of envy could obtain. A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame, Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain As on a stith, where some work of fame Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain’s gain. A visage, stern and mild; where both did grow, Vice to condemn, in virtues to rejoice; Amid great storms whom grace assured so, To live upright and smile at fortune’s choice. A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme; That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit; A mark the which (unperfited, for time) Some may approach, but never none shall hit. A tongue that served in foreign realms his king; Whose courteous talk to virtue did enflame Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring Our English youth, by travail unto fame. An eye whose judgment no affect could blind, Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile; Whose piercing look did represent a mind With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile. A heart where dread yet never so impressed To hide the thought that might the truth avaunce; In neither fortune lift, nor so repressed, To swell in wealth, nor yield unto mischance. A valiant corps, where force and beauty met, Happy, alas! too happy, but for foes, Lived, and ran the race that nature set; Of manhood’s shape, where she the mold did lose. But to the heavens that simple soul is fled, Which left with such, as covet Christ to know Witness of faith that never shall be dead: Sent for our health, but not received so. Thus, for our guilt, this jewel have we lost; The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost. Amen.

(Written by Martial) My friend, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find: The riches left, not got with pain, The fruitful ground; the quiet mind; The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; No charge of rule nor governance; Without disease the healthy life; The household of continuance; The mean diet, no dainty fare; True wisdom joined with simpleness; The night discharged of all care, Where wine the wit may not oppress; The faithful wife, without debate; Such sleeps as may beguile the night: Content thyself with thine estate, Neither wish death, nor fear his might.

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest; Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain, And virtue sank the deeper in his breast; Such profit he by envy could obtain. A head where wisdom mysteries did frame, Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain As on a stithy where that some work of fame Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain. A visage stern and mild, where both did grow, Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice; Amid great storms, whom grace assured so To live upright and smile at fortune's choice. A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme; That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit: A mark, the which (unparfited, for time) Some may approach, but never none shall hit. A tongue that served in foreign realms his king; Whose courteous talk to virtue did enflame Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring Our English youth by travail unto fame. An eye whose judgment none affect could blind, Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile; Whose piercing look did represent a mind With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile. A heart where dread was never so impress'd, To hide the thought that might the truth advance; In neither fortune loft, nor yet repress'd, To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance. A valiant corps, where force and beauty met; Happy, alas, too happy, but for foes! Lived, and ran the race, that Nature set: Of manhood's shape, where she the mould did lose. But to the heavens that simple soul is fled, Which left with such as covet Christ to know Witness of faith that never shall be dead, Sent for our health, but not received so. Thus, for our guilt, this jewel have we lost; The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.

O happy dames, that may embrace The fruit of your delight, Help to bewail the woeful case And eke the heavy plight Of me, that wonted to rejoice The fortune of my pleasant choice; Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice. In ship, freight with remembrance Of thoughts and pleasures past, He sails that hath in governance My life while it will last; With scalding sighs, for lack of gale, Furthering his hope, that is his sail, Toward me, the sweet port of his avail. Alas! how oft in dreams I see Those eyes that were my food; Which sometime so delighted me, That yet they do me good; Wherewith I wake with his return, Whose absent flame did make me burn: But when I find the lack, Lord, how I mourn! When other lovers in arms across Rejoice their chief delight. Drowned in tears, to mourn my loss I stand the bitter night In my window, where I may see Before the winds how the clouds flee. Lo! what a mariner love hath made of me! And in green waves when the salt flood Doth rise by rage of wind, A thousand fancies in that mood Assail my restless mind. Alas! now drencheth my sweet foe, That with the spoil of my heart did go, And left me; but, alas! why did he so? And when the seas wax calm again To chase fro me annoy, My doubtful hope doth cause me pain; So dread cuts off my joy. Thus is my wealth mingled with woe, And of each thought a doubt doth grow; “Now he comes! Will he come? Alas, no, no!”

Alas, so all things now do hold their peace! Heaven and earth disturbèd in no thing; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease, The nightès car the stars about doth bring; Calm is the sea; the waves work less and less: So am not I, whom love, alas! doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing, In joy and woe, as in a doubtful case. For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring: But by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.