The Long Love that in my Thought doth Harbour
by Thomas Wyatt
The longë love that in my thought doth harbour
And in mine hert doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence
And therein campeth, spreading his banner.
She that me learneth to love and suffer
And will that my trust and lustës negligence
Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness taketh displeasure.
Wherewithall unto the hert’s forest he fleeth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth and not appeareth.
What may I do when my master feareth
But in the field with him to live and die?
For good is the life ending faithfully.
Lucks, my fair falcon, and your fellows all,
How well pleasant it were your liberty!
Ye not forsake me that fair might ye befall.
My lute awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
Tagus, farewell! that westward with thy streams
Turns up the grains of gold already tried
With spur and sail, for I go seek the Thames
Since so ye please to hear me plain,
And that ye do rejoice my smart,
Me list no lenger to remain
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
The heart and service to you proffer’d
With right good will full honestly,
Refuse it not, since it is offer’d,
What needeth these threnning words and wasted wind? …
All this cannot make me restore my prey.
To rob your good, iwis, is not my mind,
BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound
Of this or that as liketh me ;
For lack of wit the Lute is bound
Ye old mule that think yourself so fair,
Leave off with craft your beauty to repair,
For it is true, without any fable,