OF THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS] W[YATT]

W. RESTETH here, that quick could never rest;

Whose heavenly gifts encreased by disdain, And virtue sank the deeper in his breast; Such profit he by envy could obtain.

A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame, 5 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,

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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 rime,

That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit,

A mark, the which (unperfected, for time) 15 Some may approach, but never none shall hit.

A tongue that served in foreign realms his king,

Whose courteous talk to virtue did enflame Each noble heart, a worthy guide to bring Our English youth by travail unto fame.

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An eye, whose judgment none affect could blind,

Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile, Whose piercing look did represent a mind With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.

A heart, where dread was never so imprest, 25 To hide the thought that might the truth advance,

In neither fortune lost nor yet represt,
To swell in wealth or yield unto mischance.

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A valiant corse, where force and beauty met,
Happy, alas, too happy, but for foes,
Lived, and ran the race that Nature set,
Of manhood's shape, where she the mold did
lose.

But to the heavens that simple soul is fled, Which left, with such as covet Christ to know,

Witness of faith that never shall be dead, 35 Sent for our health, but not received so. Thus, for our guilt, this jewel have we lost; The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.

1557

HOW NO AGE IS CONTENT WITH HIS OWN ESTATE, AND HOW THE AGE OF CHILDREN IS THE HAPPIEST, IF THEY HAD SKILL TO UNDERSTAND IT

LAID in my quiet bed, in study as I were, I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear;

And every thought did show so lively in mine eyes,

That now I sighed, and then I smiled, as cause of thought doth rise.

I saw the little boy in thought, how oft that he 5 Did wish of God to scape the rod, a tall young man to be;

The young man eke that feels his bones with pains opprest,

How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest;

The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,

How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more.

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DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE GERALDINE

FROM Tuscan came my lady's worthy race; Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat; The Western isle, whose pleasant shore doth face

Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat; Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast, 5 Her sire an earl, her dame of princes' blood; From tender years, in Britain she doth rest, With king's child, where she tasteth costly food;

Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyen; Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight; 10 Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine;

And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her sight:

Her beauty of kind, her virtues from above, Happy is he that can obtain her love!

But then I know not what unfriendly God 20
My troubled wit from me bereft for fear:
For while I ran by the most secret streets,
Eschewing still the common haunted track,
From me caitiff, alas! bereavèd was
Creusa then, my spouse, I wot not how; 25
Whether by fate, or missing of the way,
Or that she was by weariness retained:
But never sith these eyes might her behold;
Nor did I yet perceive that she was lost,
Ne never backward turnèd I my mind,
Till we came to the hill, whereas there stood
The old temple dedicate to Ceres.

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And when that we were there assembled all,

She was only away, deceiving us

Her spouse, her son, and all her company. 35
What God or man did I not then accuse,
Near woode for ire? or what more cruel

chance

Thou canst not dure, with sorrow thus attaint':

And, with that word of sorrow, all forefaint She looked up, and, prostrate as she lay, With piteous sound, lo, thus she gan to say: 105 'Alas, I wretch, whom thus thou seest distrained

With wasting woes, that never shall aslake,
Sorrow I am, in endless torments pained
Among the Furies in the infernal lake,
Where Pluto, god of hell, so grisly black,
Doth hold his throne, and Lethe's deadly
taste

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I had no sooner spoken of a stike,
But that the storm so rumbled in her breast,
As Eölus could never roar the like;
And showers down rained from her eyen so
fast,

That all bedrent the place, till at the last, 145
Well eased they the dolor of her mind,
As rage of rain doth swage the stormy wind:
For forth she paced in her fearful tale:
'Come, come,' quoth she, 'and see what I
shall show,

Come, hear the plaining and the bitter

Of worthy men by Fortune overthrow: Come thou, and see them ruing all in row, They were but shades that erst in mind thou rolled:

Come, come with me, thine eyes shall them behold.'

What could these words but make me more aghast,

155

To hear her tell whereon I mused whilere? So was I mazed therewith, till, at the last, Musing upon her words, and what they

were.