DESCRIPTION OF SPRING,

[Wherein each thing renews, save only the lover.]

The soote season, 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 make1 hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he slings;
The fishes flete with new repaired scale;
The adder all her slough away she slings';
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings2;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.

And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs !

A COMPLAINT BY NIGHT OF THE LOVER NOT BELOVED.

Alas! so all things now do hold their peace!
Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing;

The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease;
The nightës 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 ease.

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.

1 mate.

VOL I.

2 mingles.

S

[Prisoned in Windsor, he recounteth his pleasure there passed.]

So cruel prison how could betide, alas,

As proud Windsor? where I in lust and joy,
With a King's son, my childish years did pass,
In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy.
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour,
The large green courts, where we were wont to hove1,
With eyes cast up into the maiden's tower,

And easy sighs, such as folk 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;
When each of us did plead the other's right.
The palme-play 2 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 gravelled ground, with sleeves tied on the helm,
On foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts;
With cheer, as though one should another whelm,
When 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,
Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length.
The secret groves, which oft we made resound
Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise;
Recording oft what grace each one had found,
What hope of speed, what dread of long delays.
The wild forest, the clothed holts with green;
With reins availed, and swift ybreathed horse,
With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between,
When we did chase the fearful hart of force.
The void walls 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 account, where is my noble fere1,
Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose,
To other lief2, but unto me most dear.'

Echo, alas! that doth my sorrow rue
Returns thereat 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.

THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.
[Translated from Martial.]

Martial, 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 healthful life

The household of continuance.
The mean diet, no delicate fare;

3

;

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;
Contented with thine own estate,

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.
3 moderate.

1 companion.

2 dear.

A PRAISE OF HIS LOVE.

[Wherein he reproveth them that compare their ladies with his.]

Give pláce, ye lovers, here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain;

My lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayen,

Than doth the sun the candle light
Or brightest day the darkest night.

And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fair;
For what she saith, ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were:
And virtues hath she many moe
Than I with pen have skill to show.

I could rehearse, if that I would,
The whole effect of Nature's plaint,
When she had lost the perfect mould,
The like to whom she could not paint:
With wringing hands, how she did cry,
And what she said, I know it, I.

I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart,

There was no loss by law of kind

That could have gone so near her heart;

And this was chiefly all her pain;

'She could not make the like again.'

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
To be the chiefest work she wrought;
In faith, methinks! some better ways
On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun.

AN EPITAPH ON CLERE, SURREY'S FAITHFUL FRIEND AND

FOLLOWER.

Norfolk sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead;
Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, thou hight;
Within the womb of Ormond's race thou bred,
And saw'st thy cousin' crowned in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chase2;
(Aye me! whilst life did last that league was tender)
Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze,
Landrecy burnt, and battered Boulogne render.
At Montreuil gates, hopeless of all recure,
Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will;
Which cause did thee this pining death procure,
Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill.
Ah! Clere! if love had booted, care, or cost,
Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS WYATT.
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 stithe 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 (unperfected for time)

Some may approach, but never none shall hit.

1 Thomas Clere was first cousin of Anne Boleyn.

$

2 Didst choose.