EHOLD, Love, thy power how she des-
piseth ;
My grievous pain how little she regardeth :
The solemn oath, whereof she takes no cure,
Broken she hath, and yet, she bideth sure,
Right at her ease, and little thee she dreadeth :
Weaponed thou art, and she unarmed sitteth :
To thee disdainful, all her life she leadeth ;
To me spiteful, without just cause or measure :
Behold, Love, how proudly she triumpheth.
I am in hold, but if thee pity moveth,
Go, bend thy bow, that stony hearts breaketh,
And with some stroke revenge the displeasure
Of thee, and him that sorrow doth endure,
And, as his lord, thee lowly here entreateth.
Behold, Love !
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Elder
