"O hold your tongue of your former vows, For they will breed sad strife; O hold your tongue of your former vows, For I am become a wife." He turnd him right and round about, "I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground, If it had not been for thee. “I might hae had a king's daughter, I might have had a king's daughter, "If ye might have had a king's daughter, Yersel ye had to blame; Ye might have taken the king's daughter, For ye kend that I was nane. "If I was to leave my husband dear, O what have you to take me to, "I hae seven ships upon the sea- She has taken up her two little babes, She set her foot upon the ship, No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o the taffetie, And the masts o the beaten gold. She had not sayld a league, a league, They had not sayld a league, a league, A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven foot, And she wept right bitterlie. "O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, "Of your weeping now let me be; I will shew you how the lilies grow "O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, "O whaten a mountain is yon," she said, He strack the tap-mast wi his hand, And he brake that gallant ship in twain, SIR THOMAS WYATT [1503-1542] THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS FORGET not yet the tried intent Forget not yet when first began Forget not yet the great assays, Forget not! O, forget not this, How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never meant amiss- Forget not then thine own approved, TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS AND wilt thou leave me thus? And wilt thou leave me thus, As for to leave me thus? And wilt thou leave me thus, Neither for pain nor smart: And wilt thou leave me thus? And wilt thou leave me thus, And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee? Alas, thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! THE LOVER COMPLAINETH My lute, awake! perform the last As to be heard where ear is none; The rocks do not so cruelly As she my suit and affection: Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By whom unkind thou hast them won: Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, May chance, thee lie wither'd and old And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers 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 |