The longe love that in my thought I harber, And in my heart doth kepe his residence, Into my face preaseth with bold pretence, And there campeth, displaying his banner. She that me learns to love, and to suffer, And willes that my trust, and lustes negligence Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardinesse takes displeasure. Wherwith love to the hartes forest he fleeth, Leavyng his enterprise with paine and crye, And there him hideth and not appeareth. What may I do? when my maister feareth, But in the field with him to live and dye, For good is the life, endyng faithfully. (SIR THOMAS WYATT: _The lover hideth his desire_, etc., in Tottel's _Songs and Sonnets_, p. 33. pub. 1557.) It was Wyatt who introduced the sonnet into England. Thirty-one of his sonnets were published in Tottel's Miscellany, of which about a third are said to be translations or paraphrases of Petrarch's. Wyatt followed, of course, the regular Italian structure, but used unhesitatingly the form of sestet with the concluding couplet (_cddcee_). On this point Mr. Courthope says: "Wyatt was evidently unaware of the secret principle underlying the extremely complex structure of the Italian sonnet; ... and being unfortunately misled by his admiration for the _Strambotti_ of Serafino, which sum up the conclusion in a couplet, he endeavored to construct his sonnets on the same principle, thereby leading all sonnet writers before Milton on a wrong path." (_History of English Poetry_, vol. ii. p. 91.) Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,-- Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,-- I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn'd brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay; Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows, And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,-- 'Fool,' said my Muse to me, 'Look in thy heart, and write.' (SIR PHILIP SIDNEY: _Astrophel and Stella_, i. ab. 1580.)