SIR THOMAS WYATT. 1503-1542. It is a disputed point among the biographers of Wyatt, whether his amatory poems were the result of a real attachment, or merely poetical exercises. Some maintain that they are Petrarchian studies; others consider them life-sketches, drawn from his heart, and coloured by his love for Anne Boleyn. The weight of proof should rest with the latter; but unfortunately there can be no proof in the case: there was none in the time of the parties themselves, and there can be none now. When Anne Boleyn fell into disfavour with her capricious and tyrannical husband, who was casting about for a way to elevate Jane Seymour in her place, she was charged with having been unfaithful to him, and it was whispered that she was guilty of criminal intercourse with Wyatt. So, at least, Hearne says, though no evidence of such a charge exists. It was not made at her trial, for Wyatt's name is said not to have been mentioned in it. Certain it is that Henry never for a moment believed it, for after her death, no man in England stood higher in his good graces than Wyatt. That Wyatt was intimate with Anne Boleyn, does not admit of a doubt. She was the cousin of his friend Surrey, and her brother, Lord Rochfort, and himself, were fast friends. He probably met her for the first time when she was maid of honour to Queen Katharine, and as they were both about the same age, with the same taste for music and poetry, it was natural that he should admire her, and write verses to her. That she admired him and his verses, even in her darkest days, is shown by the fragment of a letter, in the Cotton collection, written by Sir William Kingston, and containing an account of all that she said and did in the Tower. She retained Wyatt's sister about her person, as her favourite and confidential attendant, and shortly before laying her head on the block, gave her, as a memento, a little manuscript prayerbook, set in gold and black enamel. This relic was preserved for a long time in the Wyatt family, as was also the tradition of Wyatt's attachment to Anne Boleyn. They rebutted all aspersions on her character after her death, and one of them, in his younger years, gathered many particulars concerning her, to refute the slanders which were then afloat. All this proves nothing, I am aware; but weighed in connection with Wyatt's poems, by those who can read between the lines, it is pretty strong circumstantial evidence. For my own part, I believe that Wyatt, at one time, loved Anne Boleyn. My friend Boker, I see, is of the same opinion, for in his touching tragedy, "ANNE BOLEYN," he puts the following lines in the mouth of Wyatt: "O Anne, Anne, The world may banish all regard for thee, Mewing thy fame in frigid chronicles, But every memory that haunts my mind Shall cluster round thee still. I'll hide thy name Under the coverture of even lines, I'll hint it darkly in familiar songs, I'll mix each melancholy thought of thee Through all my numbers: so that heedless men Shall hold my love for thee within their hearts, Wyatt's poems were first published in 1557, fifteen years after his death, in a work called Tottel's Miscellany, the earliest collection of the kind in the language. THE LOVER PRAYETH HIS OFFERED HEART TO BE RECEIVED. How oft have I, my dear and cruel foe, With my great pain to get some peace or truce, Given you my heart; but you do not use In so high things, to cast your mind so low. If any other look for it, as you trow, Their vain weak hope doth greatly them abuse: And that I thus disdain, that you refuse; It was once mine, it can no more be so. If you it chafe, that it in you can find, In this exile, no manner of comfort, Nor live alone, nor where he is called resort; He may wander from his natural kind. So shall it be great hurt unto us twain, THE LOVER FORSAKETH HIS UNKIND LOVE. My heart I gave thee, not to do it pain, I served thee, not that I should be forsaken; But, that I should receive reward again, I was content thy servant to remain; And not to be repaid on this fashion. Now, since in thee there is none other reason, For he that doth believe, bearing in hand, Plougheth in the water, and soweth in the sand. THE LOVER, DESPAIRING TO ATTAIN UNTO HIS LADY'S GRACE, RELINQUISHETH THE PURSUIT. Whoso list to hunt? I know where is an hind! But as for me, alas! I may no more, The vain travail hath wearied me so sore; I am of them that furthest come behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind There is written her fair neck round about: "Noli me tangere; for Cæsar's I am, THE DESERTED LOVER CONSOLETH HIMSELF WITH REMEMBRANCE THAT ALL WOMEN ARE BY NATURE FICKLE. Divers doth use, as I have heard and know, Hoping thereby to 'pease their painful woe. That women change, and hate where love hath been, But let it pass, and think it is of kind That often change doth please a woman's mind. THE LOVER CURSETH THE TIME WHEN FIRST HE FELL IN LOVE. When first mine eyes did view and mark Thy fair beauty to behold, And when my ears listened to hark From ears to hear, and eyes to see. I would each foot a hand had been, I would my heart had been as thine, AN EARNEST SUIT TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORSAKE HIM. And wilt thou leave me thus ? And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! ? And wilt thou leave me thus? That hath given thee my heart, Never for to depart; Neither for pain nor smart: And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus! And have no more pity, Of him that loveth thee? Alas, thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! THE FORSAKEN LOVER CONSOLETH HIMSELF WITH REMEMBRANCE OF PAST HAPPINESS. Spite hath no power to make me sad, It doth suffice that once I had, And so to leave it is no pain. Let them frown on that least doth gain, |