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· UNCERTAIN AUTHORS.
Among the uncertain authors, whose works are subjoined to
Lord Surrey's Poems, are to be classed (says Mr. Warton)
Sir Francis Bryan, and Lord Rochford. Sir Francis Bryan, (nephew to Bourchier lord Berners, the
translator of Froissart) was the friend of Sir Thomas Wyatt, and knighted by Thomas earl of Surrey, during the expedi. tion to Brittany. His wit and accomplishments procured him the post of gentleman of the privy chamber to Henry VIII. and he was afterwards promoted to more important
employments, and died chief-justiciary of Ireland, 1548. George Boleyn, viscount Rochford, brother to queen Anne
Boleyn, with whom he was most unjustly accused of a criminal intimacy, was beheaded on this suspicion in May, 1536. He was the idol of the ladies at Henry's court, and wrote several songs and sonnets. The following, which, by the editor of lord Surrey's Poems, is placed among the works of Sir Thomas Wyatt, is, in the Nuge Antiquæ, ascribed to Lord Rochford.
My lute awake, perform the last
The rocks do not so cruelly
Proud of the spoil which thou hast got
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
May chance thee lie withered and old
And then may chance thee to repent
To cause thy lover's sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done.
Now cease my lute: this is the last
That each thing is hurt of itself. Way fearest thou thy outward foe,
When thou thyself thy harm dost feed ? Of grief or hurt, of pain or woe,
Within each thing is sown the seed.
So fine was never yet the cloth,
No smith so hard his iron did beat, But the one consumed was with moth,
Th' other with canker all to-fret.
The knotty oak, and wainscot old,
Within doth eat the silly worm: Even so, a mind in envy roll’d,
Always within itself doth burn. VOL. II.
Thus every thing that nature wrought
Within itself his hurt doth bear: No outward harm need to be sought
Where enemies be within so near.
The Lover in liberty smileth at them in thraldom,
that sometimes scorned his böndage.
[Abridged from 24 lines.]
At liberty I sit, and see
Them that have erst laugh'd me to scorn, Whip'd with the whip that scourged me;
And now they ban' that they were born!
I see them sit full soberly,
And think their earnest looks to hide ; Now in themselves they cannot spy,
That they, ere this, in me have spied !
I see them sitting all alone,
Marking the steps, each word, and look, And now they tread where I have gone !
The painful path that I forsook.
I see them wander all alone,
And tread full fast, in dreadful doubt, The self-same path that I have gone !
Blessed be hap that brought me out!
At liberty all this I see; '.'
And say no word but erst among ;: Smiling at them that laugh’d at me;
Lo such is hap! mark well my song!'
The Lover in despair, lamenteth his case. ADIEU desert, how art thou spent!
Ah dropping tears how do ye waste, Ah scalding sighs how be ye spent, - To prick them forth that will not haste ! Ah pained heart thou gap'st for grace Even there where pity hath no place!
As easy 'tis the stony rock
From place to place for to remove,
A frozen heart from hate to love:
I do not understand this expression,