Imatges de pÓgina

he was soon after removed to the Tower, and thence to the scaffold on Tower Hill, where he was beheaded on the nineteenth of January 1547, not yet having attained the thirty-first year of his age.

Surrey's attainments for the time at which he lived, were unusually great. He was entirely familiar with the Latin, the French, the Italian, and the Spanish languages, and also with all the gentlemanly accomplishments of the age. His poetry is distinguished for its flowing melody, correctness of style, and purity of expression: he has the honor also to have been the first writer of English narrative blank verse in the language.

The gentle and melancholy pathos of his manner is well exemplified in the following verses, which he wrote during his confinement in Windsor Castle, when about to yield his life a sacrifice to tyrannical caprice. They are so beautiful as to hold a permanent place among the finest poetical productions in the language. The noble poet is recounting the pleasure there enjoyed in former days :—

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So cruel prison how could betide, alas!

As proud Windsor? where, in lust and joy,
With a king's son, my childish years did pass,
In greater feast than Priam's son of Troy:

Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour!

The large green courts where we were wont to hove,1

With eyes cast up into the Maiden Tower,

And easy sighs such as folks draw in love.

The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue;

The dances short, long tales of great delight,
With words and looks that tigers could but rue,
Where each of us did plead the other's right.
The palm-play, where, despoiled for the game,
With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love,
Have missed the ball and got sight of our dame,
To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above.
The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on the helm
Of foaming horse,2 with swords and friendly hearts;
With cheer, as though one should another whelm,
Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts;

With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth, oqu ola bar tender limbs that yet shot up in length: -aib dedusThe secret groves which oft we made resound, Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise, -toqati sis grecording oft what grace each one had found, 1919brod deit what hope of speed, what dread of long delays: od domnom obdoit orgeib odt robat baneriqui bus bobandengan po of mid beauro


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A lover tied the sleeve of his mistress on the head of his horse.

The wild forest, the clothed holts with green,

With reins availed1 and swiftly breathed horse;
With cries of hounds and merry blasts between,
Where we did chase the fearful hart of force.

The wide vales, eke, that harboured us each night,
Wherewith, alas, reviveth in my breast,
The sweet accord such sleeps as yet delight,
The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest:

The secret thoughts imparted with such trust,
The wanton talk, the divers change of play,
The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just;
Wherewith we passed the winter night away.

And with this thought the blood forsakes the face,
The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue,
The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas,
Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew:

O place of bliss! renewer of my woes,

Give me accounts, where is my noble fere;2
Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose;
To other leef,3 but unto me most dear:

Echo, alas! that doth my sorrow rue,

Beturns thereto a hollow sound of plaint.
Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew,
In prison pine with bondage and restraint,
And with remembrance of the greater grief
To banish the less, I find my chief relief.

To this sweet poem we add the following stanzas on

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Martial, the things that do attain

The happy life, be there, I find,

The riches left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind,

The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;

-mods to toolgon hoNoqeharge of rule, nor governance; anoitoofts to vtilid Without disease, the healthful life;

The household. of continuance. bar Jasmitusa iw 1979

donend 29itilsup The meadvdiet, no delicate fares no grow post quo.. ...oftib of true, wisdom joined with simpleness


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night the wit may, not oppress.

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Such sleeps as may beguile the night

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Content with thine own estate,

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.

ton or boticono dedwomoe godt day W to alone?

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SIR THOMAS WYATT, the contemporary and intimate friend of the Earl of Surrey, was born at Arlington Castle in Kent 1503. His family was respectable but not distinguished; and as he early evinced more than ordinary talents, his education soon became a matter of parental solicitude. In 1518, he entered St. John's College, Cambridge, but eventually left that seat of learning to enjoy the superior advantages in classical studies that the university of Oxford at that time afforded. Wyatt was graduated at the latter institution in 1523, immediately after which he turned his attention to the careful study of modern languages; and before he had reached the twenty-fourth year of his age, he was critically familiar with the French, the Italian, and the Spanish. To these intellectual attainments he added all those personal accomplishments for which the Earl of Surrey was so much celebrated; and it was not surprising, therefore, that he should have become, almost immediately after he was presented at court, a recipient of royal confidence and favor.

Wyatt was knighted by Henry the Eighth, and for a number of years almost constantly employed by that monarch upon foreign embassies. He thus enjoyed the opportunity of commingling with the more refined courts and courtiers of the continent. In 1541, he was ordered by the king to repair to Falmouth, there to meet the ambassador of Charles the Fifth of Spain, and conduct him to the English court. Anxious to execute this mission with the greatest possible celerity, he overheated himself on the way, and thus brought on a fever of which he soon after died, being in the thirty-ninth year of his age.

The traits of similarity in genius and character between Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey were so striking that a learned critic has, in contemplating them, indulged in the following strain :- They were men whose minds may be said to have been cast in the same mould; for they differ only in those minuter shades of character which must always exist in human nature. In their love of virtue, and their instinctive hatred and contempt of vice; in their freedom from personal jealousy; in their thirst after knowledge and intellectual improvement; in nice observation of nature, promptitude to action, intrepidity, and fondness for romantic enterprise; in magnificence and liberality; in generous support of others, and high-spirited neglect of themselves; in constancy and friendship, and tender susceptibility of affections of a still warmer nature, and in every thing connected with sentiment and principle, they were one and the same; but when these qualities branch out into particulars, they will be found in some respects to differ. . . . . In Wyatt's complaints, we hear a strain of manly grief which commands attention; and we listen to it with respect for the sake of him that suffers. Surrey's distress is painted in such natural terms, that we make it our own, and recognize in his sorrows, emotions which we are conscious of having felt ourselves.'

The Songs and Sonnets of Wyatt, though somewhat conceited, are not

* Dr. Nott.

without refinement, and a very considerable share of poetic feeling; and he has the honor to be the first writer who attempted to turn the Psalms of David into English metre. His poems were originally published in 1565, along with those of the Earl of Surrey; and from this copy we select the following songs, and the stanza which follows them :


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 words as touch my 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!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change,
And falsed 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 hath misdone,
And well deserved 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 silly rhyme,
Do make thee blush at any time,

Blame not my Lute!


I am as I am, and so will I be;

But how that I am none knoweth truly.
Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free,
I am as I am, and so will I be.

I lead my life indifferently;

I mean nothing but honesty ;

And though folks judge full diversely,

I am as I am, and so will I die.

I do not rejoice, nor yet complain,

Both mirth and sadness I do refrain,

And use the means since folks will feign;
Yet I am as I am, be it pleasant or pain.

Divers do judge as they do trow,
Some of pleasure and some of woe,
Yet for all that nothing they know ;
But I am as I am, wheresoever I go.

But since judgers do thus decay,
Let every man his judgment say;
I will take it in sport or play,

For I am as I am, whosoever say nay.

Who judges well, will God them send;
Who judges evil, God them amend;
To judge the best therefore intend,
For I am as I am, and so will I end.

Yet some there be that take delight,
To judge folk's thought for envy and spite;
But whether they judge me for wrong or right,
I am as I am, and so do I write.

Praying you all, that this do read,
To trust it as you do your creed;
And not to think I change my weed,
For I am as I am, however I speed.
But how that is I leave to you;
Judge as you list, false or true,

Ye know no more than afore ye knew,

Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue.

And from this mind I will not flee,

But to you all that misjudge me,

I do protest as ye may see,

That I am as I am, and so will be.

972 Vilt of

Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen,

Bear flowers, wę scęli full fresh and fait of hue,
Poison is also put in medicinefd godt szíem oⱭ
And unto many his health doth oft renew.

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