now I find
    That felon Love, to aggravate my pain,
    Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined;
    And now the maxim sage I call to mind,
    That mortal bliss must doubtful still remain
    Till death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.

    CHARLEMONT.

      Counting the hours, lest I myself mislead
    By blind desire wherewith my heart is torn,
    E’en while I speak away the moments speed,
    To me and pity which alike were sworn. 
    What shade so cruel as to blight the seed
    Whence the wish’d fruitage should so soon be born? 
    What beast within my fold has leap’d to feed? 
    What wall is built between the hand and corn? 
    Alas!  I know not, but, if right I guess,
    Love to such joyful hope has only led
    To plunge my weary life in worse distress;
    And I remember now what once I read,
    Until the moment of his full release
    Man’s bliss begins not, nor his troubles cease.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLIV.

Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre.

FEW ARE THE SWEETS, BUT MANY THE BITTERS OF LOVE.

      Ever my hap is slack and slow in coming,
    Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertain
    With doubtful love, that but increaseth pain;
    For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting. 
    Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding,
    The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain,
    The Thames shall back return into his fountain,
    And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging,
    Ere I in this find peace or quietness;
    Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely,
    Leave to conspire against me wrongfully. 
    And if I have, after such bitterness,
    One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste,
    That all my trust and travail is but waste.

    WYATT.

      Late to arrive my fortunes are and slow—­
    Hopes are unsure, desires ascend and swell,
    Suspense, expectancy in me rebel—­
    But swifter to depart than tigers go. 
    Tepid and dark shall be the cold pure snow,
    The ocean dry, its fish on mountains dwell,
    The sun set in the East, by that old well
    Alike whence Tigris and Euphrates flow,
    Ere in this strife I peace or truce shall find,
    Ere Love or Laura practise kinder ways,
    Sworn friends, against me wrongfully combined. 
    After such bitters, if some sweet allays,
    Balk’d by long fasts my palate spurns the fare,
    Sole grace from them that falleth to my share.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLV.

La guancia che fu gia piangendo stanca.

TO HIS FRIEND AGAPITO, WITH A PRESENT.