122 POEMS OF SIR HENRY WOTTON, ETC.

Who hath not erred, he doth not live;
He erred but once; once, king, forgive!

III. OF THE LOSS OF TIME.1

F life be time that here is lent,
And time on earth be cast away,
Whoso his time hath here misspent,
Hath hastened his own dying day:

So it doth prove a killing crime
To massacre our living time.

If doing nought be like to death,

Of him that doth, chameleon-wise,
Take only pains to draw his breath,
The passers-by may pasquilize,

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,
Told threescore years, fell sick, and died.

1 Chetham MS. 8012, p. 76.

2 Chetham MS. 8012, p. 158; also in Philipot's edit. of Camden's "Remains," 1657, p. 399.

2

PART III.

SPECIMENS OF

OTHER COURTLY POETS

FROM 1540 TO 1650.

UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE.1

(By Sir Thomas Wyatt or Viscount Rochford. Before 1542.)

Y lute, awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall

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;
As lead to grave in marble stone;

My song may pierce her heart as soon:
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

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
Repulse the waves continually
As she my suit and affection:
So that I am past remedy:

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 :
Thou mak'st but game on earnest pain:
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain,
Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie, withered and old,
In winter nights that are so cold,

Plaining in vain unto the moon.
Thy wishes then dare not be told;

Care then who list, for I have done.

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
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun:
Now is this song both sung and past:
My lute, be still! for I have done.