Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson |
| 21 |  |
| 13 |  | I. |
| II. |
| CV. |
| CVI. |
| CVII. |
| 4 | | III. |
| IV. |
| 2 | | V. |
| VI. |
| 2 | | VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt |  |
CXXXIV
[Horrybell of hew, hidyus to behold]
Horrybell of hew, hidyus to behold,
Carefull of countenaunce, his here all clustred,
With dead dropy blude that down his face rowled,
Pale, paynefull, and petyvsly persyd,
His hart in sunder sorofully Shyvered,
Me thought a man, thus marvelyusly murdred,
This night to me Came and carefully cryed.
Carefull of countenaunce, his here all clustred,
With dead dropy blude that down his face rowled,
Pale, paynefull, and petyvsly persyd,
His hart in sunder sorofully Shyvered,
Me thought a man, thus marvelyusly murdred,
This night to me Came and carefully cryed.
‘O man mysfortunate, more then any Creytour,
That paynefully yet lyues more payne to perceyue,
What hardenyd hath thy hart this harme to suffer?
Thy Doughtfull hope, hit doo the but disceyue.
No good nor grace to glade the shalt receyve,
By payne frome thy payne then payne to procure,
Moe bitter hit were then endles Deth to endure.
That paynefully yet lyues more payne to perceyue,
What hardenyd hath thy hart this harme to suffer?
Thy Doughtfull hope, hit doo the but disceyue.
No good nor grace to glade the shalt receyve,
By payne frome thy payne then payne to procure,
Moe bitter hit were then endles Deth to endure.
‘Folowe me’, Seith he, ‘hold here my hand.
To longe ys Dethe in ters to Proue.
The se shall Soner quenche the brand
Of the Desyre that hath the thus ondon;
Or soner send the to a deadly sowne.
Hold in thy hand the hafte herof this knyfe,
And with the blade boldely bereyve thy lyffe.’
To longe ys Dethe in ters to Proue.
The se shall Soner quenche the brand
Of the Desyre that hath the thus ondon;
Or soner send the to a deadly sowne.
Hold in thy hand the hafte herof this knyfe,
And with the blade boldely bereyve thy lyffe.’
‘Cum of’, quod he. ‘I cum’, quod I.
Then therwith as me thought
My brest I persyd paynefully,
My hart right sowne I hit raught.
But, lord! alas! hit was for naught:
For with that stroke I dyd awake.
My hart for sorow yet fele I quake.
Then therwith as me thought
My brest I persyd paynefully,
My hart right sowne I hit raught.
But, lord! alas! hit was for naught:
For with that stroke I dyd awake.
My hart for sorow yet fele I quake.
| Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt | |