SIR THOMAS WYATT
Twenty times better; but once, in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
Therewith all sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, 'Dear heart, how like you this?'
It was no dream; I lay broad waking
But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking,
And I have leave to go, of her goodness;
And she also to use new-fangleness.
But since that I so unkindely am served,
I fain would know what she hath deserved.
��M'
��46 To His Lute
"Y lute, awake' perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun, For when this song is said 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 sing, or sigh, 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.