SIR THOMAS WYATT

May chance thee lie wither' d and old The winter nights that are so cold,

Plaining 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 has lost and spent

To cause thy lover's 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 this song both sung and past

My lute, be still, for I have done.

��HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 3 p. T)e script ion of Spring

Wherein each thing renews, save only the

��HPHE 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 make 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 flings; The fishes flete with new repaired scale. 39. make] mate.

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