The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Wyatt

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W. Pickering, 1831 - 244 pages

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Page 111 - And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart Never for to depart Neither for pain nor smart : And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nay...
Page 99 - And falsed faith must needs be known; The fault 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!
Page 31 - They flee from me, that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild, and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change.
Page 98 - 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 thy 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...
Page xxvi - This maketh me at home to hunt and 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.
Page 18 - OF LOVE. FAREWELL, Love, and all thy laws for ever; Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more : Senec, and Plato, call me from thy lore, To perfect wealth, my wit for to. endeavour...
Page 142 - But ha ! ha ! ha ! full well is me, For I am now at liberty.
Page 190 - 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.
Page 194 - With savory 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...
Page 29 - 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.

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