Within my bones to rankle is assigned
                              What poison, pleasant sweet? 
 
Lo see mine eyes swell with continual tears,
The body still away sleepless it wears,
My food nothing my fainting strength repairs,
                              Nor doth my limbs sustain.     
 
In deep wide wound the deadly stroke doth turn,
To cured scar that never shall return.
Go to, triumph, rejoice thy goodly turn,
                              Thy friend thou dost oppress.
 
Oppress thou dost and hast of him no cure,
Nor yet my plaint no pity can procure,
Fierce tiger fell, hard rock without recure,
                              Cruel rebel to love.               
 
Once may thou love never be loved again;
So love thou still and not thy love obtain;
So wrathful love, with spites of just disdain
                              May threat thy cruel heart.
 



Tagus, Farewell
 
Tagus, farewell, that westward, with thy streams,
  Turns up the grains of gold already tried,
  With spur and sail for I go seek the Thames,
  Gainward the sun that show'th her wealthy pride,
  And to the town which Brutus sought by dreams,
  Like bended moon doth lend her lusty side.
  My King my Country, alone for whom I live,
  Of mighty love the wings for this me give.
 


Whoso List to Hunt

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
      But, as for me: helas, I may no more.
      The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
      I am of them, that farthest cometh behind.
   Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
      Draw from the deer; but as she fleeth afore
      Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
      Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
   Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
      As well as I, may spend his time in vain.
      And, graven with Diamonds, in letters plain,
   There is written, her fair neck round about:
      Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
      And wild for to hold – though I seem tame.



Farewell Love and All Thy Laws for Ever

Farewell Love and all thy laws for ever,
      Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more;
      Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
      To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour.
   In blind error when I did persever,
      Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh ay so sore,
      Hath taught me to set in trifles no store,
      And scape forth, since liberty is liefer.
   Therefore farewell, go trouble younger hearts,
      And in me claim no more authority,
      With idle youth go use thy property,
   And thereon spend thy many brittle darts.
      For hitherto though I have lost all my time,
    Me lusteth no longer rotten boughs to climb.
 


Divers Doth Use, as I Have Heard and Know

Divers doth use, as I have heard and know,
   When that to change their ladies do begin,
   To moan and wail, and never for to lin,
   Hoping thereby to pease their painful woe.
   And some there be, that when it chanceth so
 That women change, and hate where love hath been,
   They call them false, and think with words to win
   The hearts of them which otherwhere doth go.
   But as for me, though that by chance indeed
   Change hath out-worn the favour that I had,
   I will not wail, lament, nor yet be sad,
   Nor call her false that falsley did me feed,
   But let it pass and think it is of kind,
   That often change doth please a woman's mind.
 


Blame Not My Lute

Blame not my lute for he must sound,
  Of this and that as liketh me,
  For lack of wit the lute is bound
  To give such tunes as pleaseth me,
  Though my songs be somewhat strange,
  And speaks such words as touch thy change
                                          Blame not my lute.
 
My lute alas doth not offend,
  Though that perforce he must agree
  To sound such tunes as I intend,
  To sing to them that heareth me.
  Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
  And toucheth some that use to feign,
                                          Blame not my lute.
 
My lute and strings may not deny
  But as I strike they must obey.
  Break not them then so wrongfully
  But wreak thyself some wiser way.
  And though the songs which I indite
  Do quit thy change with rightful spite
                                          Blame not my lute.
 
Spite asketh spite and changing change,
  And falsed faith must needs be known,
  The fault so great, the case so strange
  Of right it must abroad be blown.
  Then since that by thine own desert
  My songs do tell how true thou art,
                                          Blame not my lute.
 
 Blame but the self that hast misdone,
  And well deserved to have blame.
  Change thou thy way so evil begone,
  And then my lute shall sound that same.
  But if till then my fingers play
  By thy desert, their wonted way
                                          Blame not my lute.
 
Farewell, unknown, for though thou break
  My strings in spite, with great disdain,
  Yet have I found out for thy sake
  Strings for to string my lute again.
  And if perchance this silly rhyme
  Do make thee blush at any time,
                                          Blame not my lute.
 

 
With Serving Still

With serving still
  This have I won,
  For my goodwill
  To be undone.               
 
And for redress
  Of all my pain,
  Disdainfulness
  I have again.                 
 
And for reward
  Of all my smart,
  Lo, thus unheard
  I must depart!               
 
Wherefore all ye
  That after shall
  By fortune be
  As I am, thrall,               
 
Example take,
  What I have won
  Thus for her sake
  To be undone! 
 


All Heavy Minds

All heavy minds
      Do seek to ease their charge,
      And that that most them binds
          To let at large.

Then why should I
      Hold pain within my heart,
      And may my tune apply
          To ease my smart?

My faithful lute
      Alone shall hear me plain,
      For else all other suit
          Is clean in vain.

For where I sue
      Redress of all my grief,
      Lo they do most eschew
          My hearts relief.

Alas my dear
      Have I deserved so,
      That no help may appear
          Of all my woe?

Whom speak I to,
      Unkind and deaf of ear?
      Alas, lo I go,
          And wot not where.            
 
Where is my thought?
      Where wanders my desire?
      Where may the thing be sought
          That I require?                   
 
Light in the wind
      Doth flee all my delight,
      Where truth and faithfull mind
          Are put to flight.                
 
Who shall me give
      Feathered wings for to flee,
      The thing that doth me grieve
          That I may see?                
 
Who would go seek
      The cause whereby to pain?
      Who could his foe beseek
          For ease of pain?              
 
My chance doth so
      My woeful case procure,
      To offer to my foe
          My heart to cure.             
 
What hope I then
      To have any redress?
      Of whom or where or when
          Who can express?           
 
No! since despair
      Hath set me in this case,
      In vain oft in the air
          To say 'Alas'!                
 
I seek nothing
      But thus for to discharge
      My heart of sore sighing,
          To plain at large.             
 
And with my lute
      Some time to ease my pain,
      For else all other suit
          Is clean in vain. 

 

Mine Own John Poyns

Mine own John Poyns, since ye delight to know
  The cause why that homeward I me draw,
  And flee the press of courts where so they go,
 
Rather than to live thrall, under the awe
  Of lordly looks, wrappèd within my cloak,
  To will and lust learning to set a law;
 
It is not for because I scorn and mock
  The power of them, to whom fortune hath lent
  Charge over us, of Right, to strike the stroke;
 
But true it is that I have alwayes meant
  Less to esteem them than the common sort,
  Of outward things that judge in their intent
 
Without regard what doth inward resort.
  I grant some time that of glory the fire
  Doth touch my heart; me list not to report
 
Blame by honour, and honour to desire.
  But how may I this honour now attain.
  That cannot dye the colour black a liar?
 
My Poyns, I cannot frame my tune to feign,
  To cloak the truth for praise without desert
  Of them that list all vice for to retain.
 
I cannot honour them that sets their part
  With Venus and Bacchus all their life long;
  Nor hold my peace of them although I smart.
 
I cannot crouch nor kneel to do so great a wrong,
  To worship them, like God on earth alone,
  That are as wolves these silly lambs among.
 
I cannot with words complain and moan,
  Nor suffer nought; nor smart without complaint;
  Nor turn the word that from my mouth is gone.
 
I cannot speake and look like a saint,
  Use wiles for wit, or make deceit a pleasure
  And call craft counsel, for profit still to paint.
 
I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer
  With innocent blood to feed my self fat,
  And do most hurt where most help I offer.
 
I am not he that can allow the state
  Of high Caesar, and damn Cato to die,
  That with his death did scape out of the gate
 
From Caesar's hands (if Livy do not lie),
  And would not live when liberty was lost;
  So did his heart the common weal apply.
 
I am not he such eloquence to boast
  To make the crow singing as the swan;
  Nor call the lion of coward beasts the most
 
That cannot take a mouse as the cat can;
  And he that dieth for hunger of the gold
  Call him Alexander; and say that Pan
 
Passeth Apollo in music manifold;
  Praise Sir Thopas for a noble tale,
  And scorn the story that the knight told;
 
Praise him for counsel that is drunk of ale,
  Grin when he laugheth that beareth all the sway,
  Frown when he frowneth and groan when he is pale;
 
On others lust to hang both night and day.
  None of these points would ever frame in me,
   My wit is nought, I cannot learn the way.
 
And much the less of things that greater be
  That asken help of colours of devise
  To join the mean with each extremity;
 
With the nearest virtue to cloak alway the vice;
  And as to purpose, likewise it shall fall
  To press the virtue that it may not rise:
 
As drunkeness, good fellowship to call;
  The friendly foe with his double face,
  Say he is gentle, and courteous therewithal;
 
And say that Favel hath a goodly grace
  In eloquence; and cruelty to name
  Zeal of Justice, and change in time and place.
 
And he that suffereth offence without blame
  Call him pitiful; and him true and plain
  That raileth reckless to every man's shame;
 
Say he is rude that cannot lie and feign;
  The lecher a lover; and tyranny
  To be the right of a prince's reign.
 
I cannot I, no no it will not be!
  This is the cause that I could never yet
  Hang on their sleeves that weigh, as thou mayst see,
 
A chip of chance more than a pound of wit.
  This maketh me at home to hunt and to hawk,
  And in foul weather at my book to sit;
 
In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk;
  No man doth mark where so I ride or go;
  In lusty leas at liberty I walk;
 
And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe,
  Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel.
  No force for that; for it is ordered so,
 
That I may leap both hedge and dyke full well.
  I am not now in France to judge the wine
  With savoury sauce the delicates to feel.
 
Nor yet in Spain where one must him incline
  Rather than to be outwardly, to seem;
  I meddle not with wits that be so fine.
 
Nor Flander's cheer letteth not my sight to dim
  Of black and white, nor taketh my wit away
  With beastliness; they beasts do so esteem.
 
Nor am I not where Christ is given in prey
  For money, poison and treason at Rome,--
  A common practice used night and day.
 
But here I am in Kent and Christendom,
  Among the muses where I read and rhyme,
  Where if thou list, my Poyns, for to come,
  Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my time.