BASIL KENNET.
So weary am I
’neath the constant thrall
Of mine own vile heart, and
the false world’s taint,
That much I fear while on
the way to faint,
And in the hands of my worst
foe to fall.
Well came, ineffably, supremely
kind,
A friend to free me from the
guilty bond,
But too soon upward flew my
sight beyond,
So that in vain I strive his
track to find;
But still his words stamp’d
on my heart remain,
All ye who labour, lo! the
way in me;
Come unto me, nor let the
world detain!
Oh! that to me, by grace divine,
were given
Wings like a dove, then I
away would flee,
And be at rest, up, up from
earth to heaven!
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXI.
Io non fu’ d’ amar voi lassato unquanco.
UNLESS LAURA RELENT, HE IS RESOLVED TO ABANDON HER.
Yet was I never
of your love aggrieved,
Nor never shall while that
my life doth last:
But of hating myself, that
date is past;
And tears continual sore have
me wearied:
I will not yet in my grave
be buried;
Nor on my tomb your name have
fixed fast,
As cruel cause, that did the
spirit soon haste
From the unhappy bones, by
great sighs stirr’d.
Then if a heart of amorous
faith and will
Content your mind withouten
doing grief;
Please it you so to this to
do relief:
If otherwise you seek for
to fulfil
Your wrath, you err, and shall
not as you ween;
And you yourself the cause
thereof have been.
WYATT.
Weary I never
was, nor can be e’er,
Lady, while life shall last,
of loving you,
But brought, alas! myself
in hate to view,
Perpetual tears have bred
a blank despair:
I wish a tomb, whose marble
fine and fair,
When this tired spirit and
frail flesh are two,
May show your name, to which
my death is due,
If e’en our names at
last one stone may share;
Wherefore, if full of faith
and love, a heart
Can, of worst torture short,
suffice your hate,
Mercy at length may visit
e’en my smart.
If otherwise your wrath itself
would sate,
It is deceived: and none
will credit show;
To Love and to myself my thanks
for this I owe.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET LXII.
Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie.
THOUGH NOT SECURE AGAINST THE WILES OF LOVE, HE FEELS STRENGTH ENOUGH TO RESIST THEM.
Till silver’d
o’er by age my temples grow,
Where Time by slow degrees
now plants his grey,
Safe shall I never be, in
danger’s way
While Love still points and
plies his fatal bow
I fear no more his tortures
and his tricks,
That he will keep me further