122 POEMS OF SIR HENRY WOTTON, ETC. Who hath not erred, he doth not live; III. OF THE LOSS OF TIME.1 F life be time that here is lent, So it doth prove a killing crime If doing nought be like to death, Of him that doth, chameleon-wise, Not, here he lives; but, here he dies. IV. AN EPITAPH ON A MAN FOR DOING NOTHING.o HERE lies the man was born and cried, 1 Chetham MS. 8012, p. 76. 2 Chetham MS. 8012, p. 158; also in Philipot's edit. of Camden's "Remains," 1657, p. 399. UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE.1 (By Sir Thomas Wyatt or Viscount Rochford. Before 1542.) Y lute, awake! perform the last M past, waste, And end that I have now begun; And when this song is sung and My lute, be still! for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none; My song may pierce her heart as soon: 1 In Tottel's "Songs and Sonnets," 1557, and in Nott's "Wyatt," p. 20, as Sir Thomas Wyatt's. Ascribed to Roch ford in "Nugæ Antiquæ," vol. ii. p. 400, edit. Park. The rocks do not so cruelly Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain : May chance thee lie, withered and old, Plaining in vain unto the moon. Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: Now cease, my lute! This is the last |