Sir Thomas Wyatt

Patience, though I have not The thing that I require, I must of force, God wot, Forbear my most desire; For no ways can I find To sail against the wind. Patience, do what they will To work me woe or spite, I shall content me still To think both day and night, To think and hold my peace, Since there is no redress. Patience, withouten blame, For I offended nought; I know they know the same, Though they have changed their thought. Was ever thought so moved To hate that it hath loved? Patience of all my harm, For fortune is my foe; Patience must be the charm To heal me of my woe: Patience without offence Is a painful patience.

My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin, They sang sometime a song of the field mouse, That, for because her livelood was but thin, Would needs go seek her townish sister's house. She thought herself endurèd too much pain; The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse That when the furrows swimmèd 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; Sometime a barley 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 stroyèd with the flood, Then well away! for she undone was clean. Then was she fain to take instead of food Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile. "My sister," quod 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. She feedeth on boiled bacon meet 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." 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 she 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 askèd softly who was there. And in her language, as well as she could, "Peep!" quod the other. "Sister, I am here." "Peace," quod the towny mouse, "why speakest thou so loud?" And by the hand she took her fair and well. "Welcome," quod 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 cheerèd her with "How, sister, what cheer!" Amids this joy befell a sorry chance, That, well away! the stranger bought full dear The fare she had, for, as she look 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 the 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 towny mouse fled, she know whither to go; Th' other had no shift, but wonders sore 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 Poynz, how men do seek the best And find the worst, by error as they stray! And no marvail; when sight is so opprest. 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, Sergeant with mace, hawbert, sword, nor knife, Cannot repulse the care that follow should. Each kind of life hath with him his disease. Live in delight even as thy lust would, And thou shalt find, when lust doth most thee please, 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 breres; Nor none, I trow, that hath his wit so bad To set his hay for conies over rivers, Ne ye set not a drag-net for an hare; And yet the thing that most is your desire Ye do mis-seek 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 affects, 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 deep yourself in travail more and more. Henceforth, my Poynz, this shall be all and some, These wretched fools shall have nought else of me; But to the great God and to his high doom, 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.

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 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 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 on earnest pain. Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain, Although my lute and I have done. Perchance thee lie wethered 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 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.

My galley, chargèd with forgetfulness, Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass 'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine en'my, alas, That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; And every owre a thought in readiness, As though that death were light in such a case. An endless wind doth tear the sail apace Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness. A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, Hath done the weared cords great hinderance; Wreathèd with error and eke with ignorance. The stars be hid that led me to this pain; Drownèd is Reason that should me comfort, And I remain despairing of the port.

Mine own John Poynz, since ye delight to know The cause why that homeward I me draw, And flee the press of courts, whereso they go, Rather than to live thrall under the awe Of lordly looks, wrappèd within my cloak, To will and lust learning to set a law: It is not for because I scorn or mock The power of them, to whom fortune hath lent Charge over us, of right, to strike the stroke. But true it is that I have always meant Less to esteem them than the common sort, Of outward things that judge in their intent Without regard what doth inward resort. I grant sometime that of glory the fire Doth twyche my heart. Me list not to report Blame by honour, and honour to desire. But how may I this honour now attain, That cannot dye the colour black a liar? My Poynz, I cannot from me tune to feign, To cloak the truth for praise without desert Of them that list all vice for to retain. I cannot honour them that sets their part With Venus and Bacchus all their life long; Nor hold my peace of them although I smart. I cannot crouch nor kneel to do so great a wrong, To worship them, like God on earth alone, That are as wolves these sely lambs among. I cannot with my word complain and moan, And suffer nought, nor smart without complaint, Nor turn the word that from my mouth is gone. I cannot speak and look like a saint, Use willes for wit, and make deceit a pleasure, And call craft counsel, for profit still to paint. I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer With innocent blood to feed myself fat, And do most hurt where most help I offer. I am not he that can allow the state Of him Caesar, and damn Cato to die, That with his death did scape out of the gate From Caesar's hands (if Livy do not lie) And would not live where liberty was lost; So did his heart the common weal apply. I am not he such eloquence to boast To make the crow singing as the swan; Nor call the liond of cowardes beasts the most That cannot take a mouse as the cat can; And he that dieth for hunger of the gold Call him Alexander; and say that Pan Passeth Apollo in music many fold; Praise Sir Thopias for a noble tale, And scorn the story that the Knight told; Praise him for counsel that is drunk of ale; Grin when he laugheth that beareth all the sway, Frown when he frowneth and groan when is pale; On others' lust to hang both night and day: None of these points would ever frame in me. My wit is nought—I cannot learn the way. And much the less of things that greater be, That asken help of colours of device To join the mean with each extremity, With the nearest virtue to cloak alway the vice; And as to purpose, likewise it shall fall To press the virtue that it may not rise; As drunkenness good fellowship to call; The friendly foe with his double face Say he is gentle and courteous therewithal; And say that favel hath a goodly grace In eloquence; and cruelty to name Zeal of justice and change in time and place; And he that suffer'th offence without blame Call him pitiful; and him true and plain That raileth reckless to every man's shame. Say he is rude that cannot lie and feign; The lecher a lover; and tyranny To be the right of a prince's reign. I cannot, I; no, no, it will not be! This is the cause that I could never yet Hang on their sleeves that way, as thou mayst see, A chip of chance more than a pound of wit. This maketh me at home to hunt and to hawk, And in foul weather at my book to sit; In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk; No man doth mark whereso I ride or go: In lusty leas at liberty I walk. And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe, Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel. No force for that, for it is ordered so, That I may leap both hedge and dyke full well. I am not now in France to judge the wine, With saffry sauce the delicates to feel; Nor yet in Spain, where one must him incline Rather than to be, outwardly to seem: I meddle not with wits that be so fine. Nor Flanders' cheer letteth not my sight to deem Of black and white; nor taketh my wit away With beastliness; they beasts do so esteem. Nor I am not where Christ is given in prey For money, poison, and treason at Rome— A common practice used night and day: But here I am in Kent and Christendom Among the Muses where I read and rhyme; Where if thou list, my Poinz, for to come, Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my time.

Madam, withouten many words Once I am sure ye will or no ... And if ye will, then leave your bourds And use your wit and show it so, And with a beck ye shall me call; And if of one that burneth alway Ye have any pity at all, Answer him fair with & {.} or nay. If it be &, {.} I shall be fain; If it be nay, friends as before; Ye shall another man obtain, And I mine own and yours no more.

Lucks, my fair falcon, and your fellows all, How well pleasant it were your liberty! Ye not forsake me that fair might ye befall. But they that sometime liked my company: Like lice away from dead bodies they crawl. Lo what a proof in light adversity! But ye my birds, I swear by all your bells, Ye be my friends, and so be but few else.

The longë love that in my thought doth harbour And in mine hert doth keep his residence, Into my face presseth with bold pretence And therein campeth, spreading his banner. She that me learneth to love and suffer And will that my trust and lustës negligence Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness taketh displeasure. Wherewithall unto the hert's forest he fleeth, Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, And there him hideth and not appeareth. What may I do when my master feareth But in the field with him to live and die? For good is the life ending faithfully.

Is it possible That so high debate, So sharp, so sore, and of such rate, Should end so soon and was begun so late? Is it possible? Is it possible So cruel intent, So hasty heat and so soon spent, From love to hate, and thence for to relent? Is it possible? Is it possible That any may find Within one heart so diverse mind, To change or turn as weather and wind? Is it possible? Is it possible To spy it in an eye That turns as oft as chance on die, The truth whereof can any try? Is it possible? It is possible For to turn so oft, To bring that lowest which was most aloft, And to fall highest yet to light soft: It is possible. All is possible Whoso list believe. Trust therefore first, and after preve, As men wed ladies by licence and leave. All is possible.

Tagus, farewell! that westward with thy streams Turns up the grains of gold already tried With spur and sail, for I go seek the Thames Gainward the sun that shewth her wealthy pride, And to the town which Brutus sought by dreams, Like bended moon doth lend her lusty side. My king, my country, alone for whome I live, Of mighty love the wings for this me give.