THE LESS KNOWN ENGLISH POETS. 17 



The stricken dere by kintle 

 Of death that stands in awe, 

 For his recure an herb can fynde 

 The arrow to withdraw. 



The chased dere hath soyle 

 To coole him in his heate ; 

 The asse after his very toyle 

 In stable is up set : 



The cony hath his cave ; 

 The little bird his nest, 

 From heat and cold themselves to save, 

 At all times as they list : 



The owle with feble sight 

 Lyes lurking in the leaves, 

 The sparrow in the frosty night 

 May shroude her in the eaves. 

 But wo to me, alas ! 

 In sunne nor yet in shade 

 I cannot find a resting-place, 

 My burden to unlade. 

 But day by day still beares 

 The burden on my backe, 

 With weeping eyen and watery tears, 

 To hold my hope aback. 



All thinges I see have place 

 Wherein they bowe or bende, 

 Save this, alas ! my woful case, 

 Which no where findeth ende." 



Another quotation which we shall make from the " noble Surrey," 

 is entitled *' Complaint of a Ladye, her Husband being upon the 

 Sea." For beauty of sentiment, for elegance of diction, for truth 

 and simplicity, and for grace and facility of expression, these verses 

 are equal to the very best productions of later times. 



" Good ladies, ye that have your pleasures in exile, 



Step in your foote, come take a place, and morne with me awhile 



And such as by theyre lords do set but little pryce, 



Let them sit still, it skilles them not, what channce com on the 



dice. 



But ye, whom love hath bound, by order of desyre 

 To love your lords, whose good deserts none other would require ; 

 Come ye, yet once agayne, and set your foot by myne, 

 Whose wofull plight and sorrowes great, no tong can well define. 

 My love and lord, alas ! in whom consists my welth, 

 Hath fortune sent to passe the seas, in hazard of his helth 

 Whom I was wont to embrace, with well-contented mynde, 

 Is now amid the foming floods, at pleasure of the wynde : 

 Where God will him preserve, and soone him home me send, 

 Without whiche hope, my life (alas !) were shortly at an ende : 

 M.M. No. 7. C 



