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

Songs and Epigrams

Wyatt being in Prison, to Bryan

SIGHS are my food, my drink are my tears;

Clinking of fetters would such music crave;

Stink, and close air away my life it wears;

Poor innocence is all the hope I have:

Rain, wind, or weather judge I by my ears:

Malice assaults, that righteousness should have.

Sure am I, Bryan, this wound shall heal again,

But yet, alas, the scar shall still remain.