And though the songs which I indite, Spite asketh spite, and changing change, Blame but thyself 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, Farewell! unknown; for though thou break THE LOVER'S APPEAL. ND wilt thou leave me thus? AND Say nay say nay! for shame, And wilt thou leave me thus, Say nay say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart Neither for pain nor smart: And wilt thou leave me thus? A SUPPLICATION. FORGET not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant ; My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet! Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since whan Forget not yet the great assays, Forget not yet! Forget not! O, forget not this, Forget not then thine own approved REFLECTIONS, WHILE A PRISONER IN WINDSOR. BY HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.-1516-47. [HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY, the eldest son of the Duke of Norfolk, was born in Suffolk, in 1516; and was educated at Windsor with a natural son of Henry VIII. He was greatly attached to that young man ; and after his premature death, travelled on the continent to heal his grief. He is celebrated for his chivalrous, but undoubtedly platonic love of the "Ladye Geraldine," daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare. He conducted an expedition sent to ravage the Scottish borders, with great success, in 1542. But an attempt which he was ordered to make on Boulogne, in 1544, being unfortunate, he fell under the displeasure of the merciless despot Henry VIII.; and, after a mock trial, was beheaded on Tower Hill in 1547; his real crime being his noble character as a gallant soldier, and most accomplished knight. He wrote the first English sonnets.] So cruel prison how could betide, alas! As proud Windsor? where I, in lust and joy, In greater feast than Priam's son of Troy: Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour! The large green courts where we were wont to hove, With eyes cast up into the Maiden Tower, And easy sighs such as folk draw in love. The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue; The dances short, long tales of great delight, With words and looks that tigers could but rue, Where each of us did plead the other's right. The palm-play, where, despoiled for the game, The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on the helm Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts; With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, The secret groves which oft we made resound, The wild forest, the clothed holts with green, The wide vales, eke, that harboured us each night, The secret thoughts imparted with such trust, And with this thought, the blood forsakes the face, O place of bliss! renewer of my woes, Echo, alas! that doth my sorrow rue, Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. And with remembrance of the greater grief |