Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant; My great travail so gladly spent Forget not yet! Forget not yet when first began 5 The weary life ye know, since whan The suit, the service none tell can; Forget not yet! Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways; 10 The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet! Forget not! oh! forget not this, How long ago hath been, and is The mind that never meant amiss-- 15 Forget not yet! Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved-- Forget not this! 20 _Sir Thomas Wyat._ XI _A RENUNCIATION._ If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, 5 I muse that men forget themselves so far. To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phœbus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; 10 Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list? Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, 15 Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, oh what a fool was I! _Earl of Oxford._ XII _THE EXCELLENCY OF HIS LOVE._ Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain: My lady’s beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well say’n, Than doth the sun the candle light, 5 Or brightest day the darkest night. And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair; For what she saith, ye may it trust, As it by writing sealèd were; 10 And virtues hath she many mo, Than I with pen have skill to show. I could rehearse, if that I would, The whole effect of Nature’s plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould, 15 The like to whom she could not paint: With wringing hands how she did cry, And what she said, I know it, I.