Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-15420

I Find no Peace

I find no peace, and all my war is done.

I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.

I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;

And nought I have, and all the world I seize on.

That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison

And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise—

Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,

And yet of death it giveth me occasion.

Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.

I love another, and thus I hate myself.

I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;

Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,

And my delight is causer of this strife. 

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

Sonnet 14: Alas, Have I Not

Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend, 
Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire, 
Than did on him who first stole down the fire, 
While Love on me doth all his quiver spend, 

But with your rhubarb words you must contend, 
To grieve me worse, in saying that desire 
Doth plunge my well-form'd soul even in the mire 
Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end? 

If that be sin which doth the manners frame, 
Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed, 
Ready of wit and fearing nought but shame: 

If that be sin which in fix'd hearts doth breed 
A loathing of all loose unchastity, 
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

 

Sonnet 39: Come Sleep

Come Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine by right,
  Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
  Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

Sir Philip Sidney

 

Sonnet 20: Fly, Fly, My Friends

Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound; fly! 
See there that boy, that murthering boy I say, 
Who like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie, 
Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey. 

So tyrant he no fitter place could spy, 
Nor so fair level in so secret stay, 
As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye: 
There himself with his shot he close doth lay. 

Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did, 
And stayed pleas'd with the prospect of the place, 
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid: 

But straight I saw motions of lightning grace, 
And then descried the glist'ring of his dart: 
But ere I could fly hence, it pierc'd my heart.

Sir Philip Sidney

Previous LotAll lotsNext Lot

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! 

How silently, and with how wan a face! 

What, may it be that even in heav'nly place 

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! 

Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, 

I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace 

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 

Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 

Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? 

Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 

Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? 

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Book 2 of Virgil's "Aeneid". [The Death of Laocoon].

Us caitiffs then a far more dreadful chance

Befel, that troubled our unarmed breasts.
Whiles Laocoon, that chosen was by lot
Neptunus' priest, did sacrifice a bull
Before the holy altar; suddenly
From Tenedon, behold! in circles great
By the calm seas come fleeting adders twain,
Which plied towards the shore (I loathe to tell)
With reared breast lift up above the seas:
Whose bloody crests aloft the waves were seen;
The hinder part swam hidden in the flood.
Their grisly backs were linked manifold.
With sound of broken waves they gat the strand,
With glowing eyen, tainted with blood and fire;
Whose waltring¹ tongues did lick their hissing mouths.
We fled away; our face the blood forsook:
But they with gait² direct to Lacon ran.
And first of all each serpent doth enwrap
The bodies small of his two tender sons;
Whose wretched limbs they bit, and fed thereon.
Then raught³ they him, who had his weapon caught
To rescue them; twice winding him about,
With folded knots and circled tails, his waist:
Their scaled backs did compass twice his neck,
With reared heads aloft and stretched throats.
He with his hands strave to unloose the knots,
(Whose sacred fillets all be-sprinkled were
With filth of gory blood, and venom rank)
And to the stars such dreadful shouts he sent,
Like to the sound the roaring bull forth lows.
Which from the altar wounded doth astart,
The swerving axe when he shakes from his neck.
The serpents twain, with hasted trail they glide
To Pallas' temple, and her towers of height:
Under the feet of the which goddess stern,
Hidden behind her target's boss⁴ they crept.
New gripes of dread then pierce our trembling breasts.
They said; Lacon's deserts had dearly bought
His heinous deed; that pierced had with steel
The sacred bulk, and thrown the wicked lance.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1574)

Francesco Bartolozzi, after Hans Holbein The Younger. Portrait of 

Henry Howard. (1533)

Translation of Petrarch's Sonnetto in Vita, 91

LOVE, that doth reign and live within my thought,

And built his seat within my captive breast,

Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,

Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.

But she that taught me love and suffer pain,

My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire

With shamefast look to shadow and refrain,

Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.

And coward Love, then to the heart apace

Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plain,

His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.

For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pain.

Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:

Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)

 

"Alas, so all things now do hold their peace!"

Alas, so all things now do hold their peace!

   Heaven and earth disturbèd in no thing;

The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease,

   The nightès 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 case.

   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.   

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1574)

 Wyatt Resteth Here

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 of envy could obtain.

A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame,

Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain

As on a stith, where some work of fame

Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain’s gain.

A visage, stern and mild; where both did grow,

Vice to condemn, in virtues 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 (unperfited, for time)

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.

An eye whose judgment no 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 yet never so impressed

To hide the thought that might the truth avaunce;

In neither fortune lift, nor so repressed,

To swell in wealth, nor yield unto mischance.

A valiant corps, 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:

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.

Amen.