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Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42). The Poetical Works. 1880.


To his unkind Love

WHAT rage is this? what furor? of what kind?

What power? what plague doth weary thus my mind?

Within my bones to rankle is assigned,

What poison pleasant sweet?

Lo, see, mine eyes flow 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 cureless 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 beloved again,

So love thou still, and not thy love obtain,

So wrathful love, with spites of just disdain,

May threat thy cruel heart.