Heath Readings in the Literature of England

THE LOVER DESPAIRING TO ATTAIN UNTO HIS LADY'S GRACE RELINQUISHETH THE PURSUIT

WHOSO list to hunt, I know where is an hind!
But as for me, alas, I may no more,
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore;
I am of them that furthest come behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer; but, as she fleeth afore,
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I, may spend his time in vain. 10
And, graven with diamonds in letters plain,
There is written her fair neck round about:
'Noli me tangere; for Cæsar's I am,
And wilde for to hold, though I seem tame.'
1557

THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE
UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE

My lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
And 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 through Lovès 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 playn,
Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie withered and old,
In winter nights that are so cold,
Playning 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 the song both sung and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.

THE

1557

LOVER'S LUTE CANNOT BE BLAMED, THOUGH IT SING OF HIS LADY'S UNKINDNESS

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, 5 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.

My lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey;
Break not them then so wrongfully,
But break 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;
And faults so great, the cause 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 hast 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.

1524-1527?

And new again begins their cruelness;
Since I have hid under my breast the harm 5
That never shall recover healthfulness.
The winter's hurt recovers with the warm,
The parched green restored is with the shade.
What warmth, alas, may serve for to disarm
The frozen heart that mine in flame hath
made?
10

What cold again is able to restore

My fresh green years, that wither thus and fade?

Alas, I see, nothing hath hurt so sore,
But time in time reduceth a return;

In time my harm increaseth more and

Ah, my heart, what aileth thee?

Thou know'st full well that but of late
I was turned out of Lovès gate;
And now to guide me to this mate,

Ah, my heart, what aileth thee?

I hoped full well all had been done;
But now my hope is ta'en and won;
To my torment to yield so soon,

Ah, my heart, what aileth thee? Date uncertain

OF HIS LOVE CALLED ANNA WHAT Word is that, that changeth not, Though it be turned and made in twain? It is mine Anna, God it wot, The only causer of my pain, My love that meedeth with disdain. Yet is it loved, what will you more? It is my salve, and eke my sore.

1557

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1516?-1547)

DESCRIPTION OF THE RESTLESS STATE OF A LOVER, WITH SUIT TO HIS LADY, TO RUE ON HIS DYING HEART

THE sun hath twice brought forth his tender green,

And clad the earth in lively lustiness;

Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean,

That then stir up the torments of my

breast,

Or if I sought to sail
Into the brittle port,

Where anchor hold doth fail,
To such as do resort,

And leave the haven sure,

Where blows no blustering wind, Nor fickleness in ure,

So far-forth as I find.

No, think me not so light, Nor of so churlish kind,

Though it lay in my might

My bondage to unbind,

That I would leave the hind
To hunt the gander's foe.

No, no, I have no mind
To make exchanges so.

Nor yet to change at all;
For think, it may not be
That I should seek to fall
From my felicity,
Desirous for to win
And loth for to forego,
Or new change to begin
How may all this be so?

The fire it cannot freeze,