Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, In prison pine, with bondage and restraint: And with remembrance of the greater grief, To banish the less, I find my chief relief.

With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth, Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length. The secret groves, which oft we made resound Of …

So cruel prison how could betide, alas, As proud Windsor? where I, in lust and joy, With a King's son, my childish years did pass, In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour.

London! hast thou accused me Of breach of laws? the root of strife! Within whose breast did boil to see, So fervent hot, thy dissolute life.

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest: Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain; And virtue sank the deeper in his breast: Such profit he by envy could obtain.

I know she swore with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss, by law of kind, That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain: "She could not make the like again".

O happy dames! that may embrace The fruit of your delight; Help to bewail the woful case, And eke the heavy plight Of me, that wonted to rejoice The fortune of my pleasant choice:

Then think I thus: "Sith such repair, So long time war of valiant men, Was all to win a lady fair, Shall I not learn to suffer then? And think my life well spent to be, Serving a worthier wight than she?"

But by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang, that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.

Brittle beauty, that Nature made so frail, Whereof the gift is small, and short the season; Flowering to-day, to-morrow apt to fail; Tickle treasure, abhorred of reason: Dangerous to deal with, vain, of none avail; Costly in keeping, past …

Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought, That built his seat within my captive breast; Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.

And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs!

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale: The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her make hath told her tale; Summer is come, for every spray now springs.