Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt :: :: University of Virginia Library

Love to gyve law vnto his subiect hertes
Stode in the Iyes off Barsabe the bryght;
And in a look anone hymsellff convertes,
Cruelly plesant byfore kyng David syght;
First dasd his Iyes and forder forth he stertes
With venemd breth as sofftly as he myght
Towcht his sensis and ouer ronnis his bonis
With creping fyre, sparplid for the nonis.

And when he saw that kendlid was the flame,
The moyst poyson in his hert he launcyd,
So that the sowle did tremble with the same;
And in this brawle as he stode and trauncyd,
Yelding vnto the figure and the frame
That those fayre Iyes had in his presens glauncid,
The forme that love had printyd in his brest
He honorth it as thing off thinges best.

So that forgott the wisdome and fore-cast
(Wych wo to Remes when that thes kynges doth lakk)
Forgettyng eke goddes maiestie as fast,
Ye and his own, forthwith he doth to mak
Vrye to go in to the feld in hast,
Vrye I say, that was his Idolles mak,
Vnder pretence off certen victorye
For enmys swordes a redy pray to dye.

Wherby he may enjoy her owt of dowte,
Whom more then god or hymsellff he myndyth;
And after he had browght this thing abowt
And off that lust posest hym sellff, he fyndyth
That hath and doth reuerse and clene torn owt
Kynges from kyndomes and cytes vndermyndyth:
He blyndyd thinkes this trayne so blynd and closse
To blynd all thing that nowght may it disclosse.

But Nathan hath spyd out this trecherye
With rufull chere, and settes afore his face
The gret offence, outrage and Iniurye,
That he hath done to god as in this Case,
By murder for to clok Adulterye;

100

He shewth hym ek from hevyn the thretes, alas,
So sternly sore, this prophet, this Nathan,
That all amasid this agid woofull man.

Lyke hym that metes with horrour and with fere,
The hete doth strayte forsake the lyms cold,
The colour eke drowpith down from his chere,
So doth he fele his fyer maynifold.
His hete, his lust and plesur all in fere
Consume and wast, and strayt his crown of gold,
His purpirll pall, his sceptre he lettes fall,
And to the ground he throwth hym sellff withall.

The pompous pryd of state and dygnite
Fortwith rabates repentant humblenes;
Thynner vyle cloth then clothyth pouerty
Does skantly hyde and clad his nakednes;
His faire hore berd of reverent gravite
With ruffeld here, knowyng his wykednes:
More lyke was he the sellff same repentance
Then statly prynce off worldly governance.

His harpe he taketh in hand to be his guyde,
Wherewith he offerth his plaintes his sowle to save,
That from his hert distilles on euery syde,
Withdrawyng hym into a dark Cave
Within the grownd wherin he myght hym hyde,
Fleing the lyght, as in pryson or grave:
In wych as sone as David enterd had,
The dark horrour did mak his fawte a drad.

101

But he withowt prolonging or delay
Rof that that myght his lord, his god, apese,
Fallth on his knees, and with his harp, I say,
Afore his brest, frawtyd with disese
Off stormy syghes, his chere colourd lyk clay,
Dressyd vpryght, sekyng to conterpese
His song with syghes, and towching of the strynges
With tendre hert, lo thus to god he synges.