VER my hap is slack and slow in coming,
Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertain
With doubtful love, that but increaseth
pain;
For, tiger like, so swift it is in parting.
Alas ! the snow black shall it be and scalding,
The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,
The Thames shall back return into his fountain,
And where he rose the sun shall take his lodging,
Ere I in this find peace or quietness ;
Or that Love, or my Lady, right-wisely,
Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.
And if I have after such bitterness,
One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,
That all my trust and travail is but waste.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder
