Stanzas on the death of Wyatt
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YATT resteth here, that quick could never rest :Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain ;And 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 brain,As on a stithe,1 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 assured so,To 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 (unperfected for time)Some may approach, but never none shall hit.A tongue that serv'd in foreign realms his king ;Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflameEach noble heart ; a worthy guide to bringOur English youth by travail unto fame.An eye, whose judgment none effect could blind,Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile ;Whose piercing look did represent a mindWith virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.A heart, where dread was never so imprestTo hide the thought that might the truth advance ;In neither fortune loft, nor yet represt,To 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 mould did lose.But to the heavens that 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 received so.Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost ;The earth his bones, the heaven possess his ghost.
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