Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest
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yatt resteth here, that quick could never rest,Whose heavenly gifts, increasèd by disdainAnd virtue, sank the deeper in his breast:Such profit he by envy could obtain. A head where wisdom mysteries did frame,Whose hammers beat still in that lively brainAs on a stith, where that some work of fameWas daily wrought to turn to Britain's gain. A visage stern and mild, where both did growVice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice;Amid great storms whom grace assurèd soTo live upright and smile at fortune's choice. A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme,That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit--A mark the which, unperfited for time,Some may approach, but never none shall hit. A tongue that served in foreign realms his kingWhose courteous talk to virtue did inflameEach noble heart: a worthy guide to bringOur English youth by travail unto fame. An eye whose judgment none affect could blind,Friends to allure and foes to reconcile,Whose piercing look did represent a mindWith virtue fraught, reposèd, void of guile. A heart where dread yet never so impressedTo hide the thought that might the truth advance;In neither fortune loft nor yet repressedTo swell in wealth or yield unto mischance. A valiant corpse where force and beauty met,Happy--alas, too happy, but for foes;Lived and ran the race that Nature set,Of manhood's shape, where she the mold did lose. But to the heavens hat simple soul is fled,Which left, with such as covet Christ to know,Witness of faith that never shall be dead,Sent for our health, but not receivèd so. Thus for our guilt, this jewel have we lost;The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.
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